n 


THKY  PASSED  THROUGH   THE  AVENUE   OF   BROOK  WILLOWS 


JEROME,  A   POOR   MAN 


a  mov»ei 


BY 

MARY   E.  WILKINS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"PEMBROKE"  "JANE  FIELD"  "MADELON 
"  A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE  "  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY   A.   !.   KELLER 


NEW   Y011K   AND   LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1897 


BY  MARY  E.  WILKINS. 

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Copyright,  1897,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHKUS. 

All  r,ykl,  rticrved. 


317/2- 
JV7 


TO 

MY  FATHER 


M115419 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"THEY   PASSED   THROUGH   THE  AVENUE   OF  BROOK 

WILLOWS  " Frontispiece 

"'CARRY  IT   STIDDY '" Facing  p.    16 

"'SAY  IT  AGAIN,  IF  YE  DARE  !'" "  26 

"'THE  WAY  I  LOOK  AT  IT  IS  THIS '  "  ,              .     .  "  36 

"THERE  SHE  SAT  IN  STATE"     .    .         ....  "  52 

"'WHAT'S  GOIN'  TO  BE  DONE?'" "  68 

"'HOW  DO  YOU  DO?'  SHE  SAID,  PRETTILY"    .    .  "  90 
"LUCINA  KNITTED  UNTIL  HER  STENT  WAS  FIN 
ISHED"   .       .  "  110 

"'TAKE— MY  LAND?'  HE  FALTERED" "  130 

"THE  THREE  FRIENDS  STARED  AT  HIM"     ...  "  152 

"  'GOT  ANY  ROOM  TO  SPARE  IN  THAT  COAT?'"    .  "  176 

"'WISH  I  COULD  MAKE  YOU  STOP  SIIININ'  !'"  .    .  "  186 

"MINDY  TOGGS  WAS  A  TERRIFYING  OBJECT"  .     .  "  204 

"'I  WANT  TO  KNOW,  YOUNG  MAN'" "  224 

"SHE  HEARD  JEROME  AND  HER  HUSBAND  MOVING 

ABOUT" "268 

"  'NOTHING,'  SAID  HER  BROTHER  ;  'GOOD-NIGHT'  "  "  288 
"HE  KNEW  ONLY  THAT  HE  HAD  FOLLOWED  LU 
CINA  ABOUT" "  300 

"SHE    EVEN   STIRRED   TO   GREET   HIM"  "  312 


vi 


"OFTEN   SIIK   WOULD   PAUSE   IX   HER  COUNTING"  .  Facing  p.  332 

"  LUCINA  LOOKED   AT   HER   SLEEPING   LOVER "  .       .  "  362 
"  'I'LL  KILL  YOU,  OR  ANY  OTHER  MAN,  WHO  DARES 

TO  SAY  I   DID'" "  392 

"'FATHER,    THIS    IS    THE    GIRL    I    AM    GOING     TO 

MARRY'" "  412 

"THERE  STOOD  HIS  MOTHER  OVER  AN  OLD  MAN"  "  432 

"ALL  DAY  ABEL  SAT  IN  STATE" "  442 

"'I'LL  TELL  YE  ONE  THING,  ALL  OF  YE '"     .    .  "  460 

"LUCINA  DID  NOT  BLUSH  NOR  TREMBLE"  .    .  "  502 


JEROME,  A  POOR  MAN 


JEROME,  A  POOR  MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

morning  in  early  May,  when  the  wind  was 
cold  and  the  sun  hot,  and  Jerome  about  twelve  years 
old,  he  was  in  a  favorite  lurking-place  of  his,  which 
nobody  but  himself  knew. 

Three  fields'  width  to  the  northward  from  the 
Edwardses'  house  was  a  great  rock  ledge;  on  the 
southern  side  of  it  was  a  famous  warm  hiding-place 
for  a  boy  on  a  windy  spring  day.  There  was  a  hol 
low  in  the  rock  for  a  space  as  tall  as  Jerome,  and 
the  ledge  extended  itself  beyond  it  like  a  sheltering 
granite  wing  to  the  westward. 

The  cold  northwester  blowing  from  over  the  linger 
ing  Canadian  snow-banks  could  not  touch  him,  and 
he  had  the  full  benefit  of  the  sun  as  it  veered  im 
perceptibly  south  from  east.  He  lay  there  basking 
in  it  like  some  little  animal  which  had  crawled  out 
from  its  winter  nest.  Before  him  stretched  the 
fields,  all  flushed  with  young  green.  On  the  side  of 
a  gentle  hill  at  the  left  a  file  of  blooming  peach-trees 
looked  as  if  they  were  moving  down  the  slope  to 
some  imperious  march  music  of  the  spring. 

In  the  distance  a  man  was  at  work  with  plough  and 


•  hor&e.  His  shouts  came  faintly  across,  like  the  ever- 
present  notes  of  labor  in  all  the  harmonies  of  life. 
;TlVe  oialy  habitation  in  sight  was  Squire  Eben  Mer- 
:rht's,  :and  oi'  that  only  the  broad  slants  of  shingled 
roof  and  gray  end  wall  of  the  barn,  with  a  pink 
spray  of  peach-trees  against  it. 

Jerome  stared  out  at  it  all,  without  a  thought  con 
cerning  it  in  his  brain.  He  was  actively  conscious 
only  of  his  own  existence,  which  had  just  then  a 
wondrously  pleasant  savor  for  him.  A  sweet  exhila 
rating  fire  seemed  leaping  through  every  vein  in  his 
little  body.  He  was  drowsy,  and  yet  more  fully 
awake  than  he  had  been  all  winter.  All  his  pulses 
tingled,  and  his  thoughts  were  overborne  by  the 
ecstasy  in  them.  Jerome  had  scarcely  felt  thoroughly 
warm  before,  since  last  summer.  That  same  little, 
tight,  and  threadbare  jacket  had  been  his  thickest 
garment  all  winter.  The  wood  had  been  stinted  on 
the  hearth,  the  coverings  on  his  bed ;  but  now  the 
full  privilege  of  the  spring  sun  was  his,  and  the 
blood  in  this  little  meagre  human  plant,  chilled  and 
torpid  with  the  winter's  frosts,  stirred  and  flowed 
like  that  in  any  other.  Who  could  say  that  the  bliss 
of  renewed  vitality  which  the  boy  felt,  as  he  rested 
there  in  his  snug  rock,  was  not  identical  with  that  of 
the  springing  grass  and  the  flowering  peach-trees  ? 
Who  could  say  that  he  was  more  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  for  that  minute,  than  the  rock-honeysuckle 
opening  its  red  cups  on  the  ledge  over  his  head  ? 
He  was  conscious  of  no  more  memory  or  forethought. 

Presently  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  the  sunlight  came 
in  a  soft  rosy  glow  through  his  closed  lids.  Then  it 
was  that  a  little  girl  came  across  the  fields,  clamber 
ing  cautiously  over  the  stone  walls,  lest  she  should 


tear  her  gown,  stepping  softly  over  the  green  grass  in 
her  little  morocco  shoes,  and  finally  stood  still  in 
front  of  the  boy  sitting  with  his  eyes  closed  in  the 
hollow*  of  the  rock.  Twice  she  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak,  then  shut  it  again.  At  last  she  gained  cour 
age. 

"  Be  you  sick,  boy  ?"  she  inquired,  in  a  sweet,  timid 
voice. 

Jerome  opened  his  eyes  with  a  start,  and  stared  at 
the  little  quaint  figure  standing  before  him.  Lucina 
wore  a  short  blue  woollen  gown  ;  below  it  her  starched 
white  pantalets  hung  to  the  tops  of  her  morocco 
shoes.  She  wore  also  a  white  tier,  and  over  that  a 
little  coat,  and  over  that  a  little  green  cashmere 
shawl  sprinkled  with  palm  leaves,  which  her  mother 
had  crossed  over  her  bosom  and  tied  at  her  back  for 
extra  warmth.  Lucina's  hood  was  of  quilted  blue 
silk,  and  her  smooth  yellow  curls  flowed  from  under 
it  quite  down  to  her  waist.  Moreover,  her  mother 
had  carefully  arranged  four,  two  on  each  side,  to 
escape  from  the  frill  of  her  hood  in  front  and  fall 
softly  over  her  pink  cheeks.  Luciua's  face  was  very 
fair  and  sweet — the  face  of  a  good  and  gentle  little 
girl,  who  always  minded  her  mother  and  did  her 
daily  tasks. 

Her  dark  blue  eyes,  set  deeply  under  seriously 
frowning  childish  brows,  surveyed  Jerome  with  inno 
cent  wonder  ;  her  pretty  mouth  drooped  anxiously  at 
the  corners.  Jerome  knew  her  well  enough,  although 
he  had  never  before  exchanged  a  word  with  her.  She 
was  little  Lucina  Merritt,  whose  father  had  money 
and  bought  her  everything  she  wanted,  and  whose 
mother  rigged  her  up  like  a  puppet,  as  he  had  heard 
his  mother  say. 


"No,  ain't  sick/'  he  said,  in  a  half-intelligible 
grunt.  A  cross  little  animal  poked  into  wakefulness 
in  the  midst  of  its  nap  in  the  sun  might  have  re 
sponded  in  much  the  same  way.  Gallantry  had  not 
yet  developed  in  Jerome.  He  saw  in  this  pretty 
little  girl  only  another  child,  and,  moreover,  one 
finely  shod  and  clothed,  while  he  went  shoeless  and 
threadbare.  He  looked  sulkily  at  her  blue  silk  hood, 
pulled  his  old  cap  down  with  a  twitch  to  his  black 
brows,  and  shrugged  himself  closer  to  the  warm  rock. 

The  little  girl  eyed  his  bare  toes.  "  Be  you  cold  ?" 
she  ventured. 

"No,  ain't  cold,"  grunted  Jerome.  Then  he 
caught  sight  of  something  in  her  hand  — a  great 
square  of  sugar-gingerbread,  out  of  which  she  had 
taken  only  three  dainty  bites  as  she  came  along,  and 
in  spite  of  himself  there  was  a  hungry  flash  of  his 
black  eyes. 

Lucina  held  out  the  gingerbread.  "I'd  just  as 
lives  as  not  you  had  it,"  said  she,  timidly.  "It's 
most  all  there.  I've  just  had  three  teenty  bites." 

Jerome  turned  on  her  fiercely.  "  Don't  want  your 
old  gingerbread,"  he  cried.  "Ain't  hungry — have 
nil  I  want  to  home." 

The  little  Lucina  jumped,  and  her  blue  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  turned  away  without  a  word,  and 
ran  falteringly,  as  if  she  could  not  see  for  tears, 
across  the  field ;  and  there  was  a  white  lamb  trotting 
after  her.  It  had  appeared  from  somewhere  in  the 
fields,  and  Jerome  had  not  noticed  it.  He  remem 
bered  hearing  that  Lucina  Merritt  had  a  cosset  lamb 
that  followed  her  everywhere.  "  Has  everything," 
he  muttered  —  "lambs  an'  everything.  Don't  want 
your  old  gingerbread." 


Suddenly  he  sprang  up  and  began  feeling  in  his 
pocket  ;  then  he  ran  like  a  deer  after  the  little  girl. 
She  rolled  her  frightened,  tearful  blue  eyes  over  her 
shoulder  at  him,  and  began  to  run  too,  and  the  cos 
set  lamb  cantered  faster  at  her  heels  ;  but  Jerome 
soon  gained  on  them. 

"Stop,  can't  ye  ?"  he  sang  out.  "Ain't  goin'  to 
hurt  ye.  What  ye  'fraid  of  ?"  He  laid  his  hand  on 
her  green-shawled  shoulders,  and  she  stood  panting, 
her  little  face  looking  up  at  him,  half  reassured, 
half  terrified,  from  her  blue  silk  hood-frills  and  her 
curls. 

"  Like  sas'fras  ?"  inquired  Jerome,  with  a  lordly 
air.  An  emperor  about  to  bestow  a  largess  upon  a 
slave  could  have  had  no  more  of  the  very  grandeur 
of  beneficence  in  his  mien. 

Lucina  nodded  meekly. 

Jerome  drew  out  a  great  handful  of  strange  arti 
cles  from  his  pocket,  and  they  might,  from  his  manner 
of  handling  them,  have  been  gold  pieces  and  jewels. 
There  were  old  buttons,  a  bit  of  chalk,  and  a  stub  of 
slate-pencil.  There  were  a  horse-chestnut  and  some 
grains  of  parched  sweet-corn  and  a  dried  apple-core. 
There  were  other  things  which  age  and  long  bond 
age  in  the  pocket  had  brought  to  such  passes  that 
one  could  scarcely  determine  their  identities.  From 
all  this  Jerome  selected  one  undoubted  treasure — a 
great  jagged  cut  of  sassafras  root.  It  had  been 
nicely  scraped,  too,  and  looked  white  and  clean. 

"  Here/7  said  Jerome. 

"Don't  you  want  it  ?"  asked  Lucina,  shyly. 

"No — had  a  great  piece  twice  as  big  as  that  yes 
terday.  Know  where  there's  lots  more  in  the  cedar 
swamp.  Here,  take  it." 


"Thank  you/'  said  Lucina,  and  took  it,  and  fum 
bled  nervously  after  her  little  pocket. 

"Why  don't  you  eat  it  ?"  asked  Jerome,  and  Lucina 
took  an  obedient  little  nibble. 

"  Ain't  that  good  and  strong  ?" 

"It's  real  good,"  replied  Lucina,  smiling  grate 
fully. 

"  Mebbe  I'll  dig  you  some  more  some  time/'  said 
Jerome,  as  if  the  cedar  swamp  were  a  treasure-chest. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  little  girl.  Then  she 
timidly  extended  the  gingerbread  again.  "I  only 
took  three  little  bites,  an'  it's  real  nice,  honest,"  said 
she,  appealingly. 

But  she  jumped  again  at  the  flash  in  Jerome's 
black  eyes. 

"Don't  want  your  old  gingerbread!"  he  cried. 
"Ain't  hungry;  have  more'n  I  want  to  eat  to  home. 
Guess  my  folks  have  gingerbread.  Like  to  know 
what  you're  tryin'  to  give  me  victuals  for !  Don't 
want  any  of  your  old  gingerbread  !" 

"  It  ain't  old,  honest,"  pleaded  Lucina,  tearfully. 
"It  ain't  old — Hannah,  she  just  baked  it  this  morn 
ing."  But  the  boy  was  gone,  pelting  hard  across  the 
field,  and  all  there  was  for  the  little  girl  to  do  was  to 
go  home,  with  her  sassafras  in  her  pocket  and  her 
gingerbread  in  her  hand,  with  an  aromatic  savor  on 
her  tongue  and  the  sting  of  slighted  kindness  in  her 
heart,  with  her  cosset  lamb  trotting  at  heel,  and  tell 
her  mother. 

Jerome  did  not  return  to  his  nook  in  the  rock. 
As  he  neared  it  he  heard  the  hollow  note  of  a  horn 
from  the  northwest. 

"  S'pose  mother  wants  me,"  he  muttered,  and  went 
on  past  the  rock  ledge  to  the  west,  and  climbed  the 


stone  wall  into  the  first  of  the  three  fields  which 
separated  him  from  his  home.  Across  the  young 
springing  grass  went  Jerome  —  a  slender  little  lad 
moving  with  an  awkward  rustic  lope.  It  was  the 
gait  of  the  homely  toiling  men  of  the  village  which 
his  young  muscles  had  caught,  as  if  they  had  in 
themselves  powers  of  observation  and  assimilation. 
Jerome  at  twelve  walked  as  if  he  had  held  plough-  ] 
shares,  bent  over  potato  hills,  and  hewn  wood  in  cedar  \ 
swamps  for  half  a  century.  Jerome's  feet  were  bare,  j 
and  his  red  rasped  ankles  showed  below  his  hitching 
trousers.  His  poor  winter  shoes  had  quite  failed 
him  for  many  weeks,  his  blue  stockings  had  shown 
at  the  gaps  in  their  sides  which  had  torn  away  from 
his  mother's  strong  mending.  Now  the  soles  had 
gone,  and  his  uncle  Ozias  Lamb,  who  was  a  cobbler, 
could  not  put  in  new  ones  because  there  was  not 
strength  enough  in  the  uppers  to  hold  them.  "  You 
can't  have  soles  in  shoes  any  more  than  you  can  in 
folks,  without  some  body/'  said  Ozias  Lamb.  It 
seemed  as  if  Ozias  might  have  made  and  presented 
some  new  shoes,  soles  and  all,  to  his  needy  nephew, 
but  he  was  very  poor,  and  not  young,  and  worked 
painfully  to  make  every  cent  count.  So  Jerome  went 
barefoot  after  the  soles  parted  from  his  shoes  ;  but 
he  did  not  care,  because  it  was  spring  and  the  snow 
was  gone.  Jerome  had,  moreover,  a  curious  disre 
gard  of  physical  discomfort  for  a  boy  who  could  take 
such  delight  in  sheer  existence  in  a  sunny  hollow  of 
a  rock.  He  had  had  chilblains  all  winter  from  the 
snow-water  which  had  soaked  in  through  his  broken 
shoes  ;  his  heels  were  still  red  with  them,  but  not  a 
whimper  had  he  made.  He  had  treated  them  dog 
gedly  himself  with  wood-ashes,  after  an  old  country 


prescription,  and  said  nothing,  except  to  reply, 
"Doctorin'  chilblains/'  when  his  mother  asked  him 
what  he  was  doing. 

Jerome  also  often  went  hungry.  He  was  hungry 
now  as  he  loped  across  the  field.  A  young  wolf  that 
had  roamed  barren  snow-fields  all  winter  might  not 
have  felt  more  eager  for  a  good  meal  than  Jerome., 
and  he  was  worse  off,  because  he  had  no  natural 
prey.  But  he  never  made  a  complaint. 

Had  any  one  inquired  if  he  were  hungry,  he  would 
have  flown  at  him  as  he  had  done  at  little  Lucina 
Merritt  when  she  offered  him  her  gingerbread.  He 
knew,  and  all  his  family  knew,  that  the  neighbors 
thought  they  had  not  enough  to  eat,  and  the  knowl 
edge  so  stung  their  pride  that  it  made  them  defy  the 
fact  itself.  They  would  not  own  to  each  other  that 
they  were  hungry ;  they  denied  it  fiercely  to  their 
own  craving  stomachs. 

Jerome  had  had  nothing  that  morning  but  a 
scanty  spoonful  of  corn-meal  porridge,  but  he  would 
have  maintained  stoutly  that  he  had  eaten  a  good 
breakfast.  He  took  another  piece  of  sassafras  from 
his  pocket  and  chewed  it  as  he  went  along.  After 
all,  now  the  larder  of  Nature  was  open  and  the  lock 
of  the  frost  on  her  cupboards  was  broken,,  a  boy 
would  not  fare  so  badly ;  he  could  not  starve.  There 
was  sassafras  root  in  the  swamps — plenty  of  it  for 
the  digging ;  there  were  young  winter-green  leaves, 
stinging  pleasantly  his  palate  Avith  green  aromatic 
juice ;  later  there  would  be  raspberries  and  black 
berries  and  huckleberries.  There  were  also  the  mys 
terious  cedar  apples,  and  the  sour-sweet  excrescences 
sometimes  found  on  swamp  bushes.  These  last  were 
the  little  rarities  of  Nature's  table  which  a  boy 


would  come  upon  by  chance  when  berrying  and 
snatch  with  delighted  surprise.  They  appealed  to 
his  imagination  as  well  as  to  his  tongue,  since  they 
belonged  not  to  the  known  fruits  in  his  spelling-book 
and  dictionary,  and  possessed  a  strange  sweetness  of 
fancy  and  mystery  beyond  their  woodland  savor.  In 
a  few  months,  too,  the  garden  would  be  grown  and 
there  would  be  corn  and  beans  and  potatoes.  Then 
Jerome's  lank  outlines  would  begin  to  take  on  curves 
and  the  hungry  look  would  disappear  from  his  face. 
He  was  a  handsome  boy,  with  a  fearless  outlook  of 
black  eyes  from  his  lean,  delicate  face,  and  a  thick 
curling  crop  of  fair  hair  which  the  sun  had  bleached 
like  straw.  Always  protected  from  the  weather,  Je 
rome's  hair  would  have  been  brown ;  but  his  hats 
failed  him  like  his  shoes,  and  often  in  the  summer 
season  were  crownless.  However,  his  mother  mended 
them  as  long  as  she  was  able.  She  was  a  thrifty 
woman,  although  she  was  a  semi-invalid,  and  sat  all 
day  long  in  a  high-backed  rocking-chair.  She  was 
not  young  either  ;  she  had  been  old  when  she  mar 
ried  and  her  children  were  born,  but  there  was  a 
strange  element  of  toughness  in  her — a  fibre  either  of 
body  or  spirit  that  kept  her  in  being,  like  the  fibre 
of  an  old  tree. 

Before  Jerome  entered  the  house  his  mother's 
voice  saluted  him.  "Where  have  you  been,  Jerome 
Edwards  ?"  she  demanded.  Her  voice  was  queru 
lous,  but  strongly  shrill.  It  could  penetrate  every 
wall  and  door.  Ann  Edwards,  as  she  sat  in  her  rock 
ing-chair,  lifted  up  her  voice,  and  it  sounded  all 
over  her  house  like  a  trumpet,  and  all  her  household 
marched  to  it. 

"Been  over  in  the   pasture,"  answered  Jerome, 


10 


with  quick  and  yet  rather  defiant  obedience,  as  he 
opened  the  door. 

His  mother's  face,  curiously  triangular  in  outline, 
like  a  cat's,  with  great  hollow  black  eyes  between 
thin  parted  curtains  of  black  false  hair,  confront 
ed  him  when  he  entered  the  room.  She  always 
sat  face  to  the  door  and  window,  and  not  a  soul  who 
passed  or  entered  escaped  her  for  a  minute.  "  What 
have  you  been  doing  in  the  pasture  ?"  said  she. 

"SittinV 

"SittinT' 

"I've  been  sitting  on  the  warm  side  of  the  big 
rock  a  little  while,"  said  Jerome.  He  looked  sub 
dued  before  his  mother's  gaze,  and  yet  not  abashed. 
She  always  felt  sure  that  there  was  some  hidden  re 
serve  of  rebellion  in  Jerome,  coerce  him  into  obedi 
ence  as  she  might.  She  never  really  governed  him, 
as  she  did  her  daughter  Elmira,  who  stood  washing 
dishes  at  the  sink.  But  she  loved  Jerome  better, 
although  she  tried  not  to,  and  would  not  own  it  to 
herself. 

"  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ?"  said  she,  se 
verely. 

Jerome  glanced  at  the  tall  clock  in  the  corner.  It 
was  nearly  ten.  He  glanced  and  made  no  reply.  He 
sometimes  had  a  dignified  masculine  way,  beyond 
his  years,  of  eschewing  all  unnecessary  words.  His 
mother  saw  him  look  at  the  time  ;  why  should  he 
speak?  She  did  not  wait  for  him.  "'Most  ten 
o'clock,"  said  she,  "and  a  great  boy  twelve  years  old 
lazing  round  on  a  rock  in  a  pasture  when  all  his  folks 
are  working.  Here's  your  mother,  feeble  as  she  is, 
workin'  her  fingers  to  the  bone,  while  you're  doing 
nothing  a  whole  forenoon.  I  should  think  you'd  be 




ashamed  of  yourself.  Now  yon  take  the  spade  and 
go  right  out  and  go  to  work  in  the  garden.  It's 
time  them  beans  are  in,  if  they're  going  to  be.  Your 
father  has  had  to  go  down  to  the  wood-lot  and  get  a 
load  of  wood  for  Doctor  Prescott,  and  here  'tis  May 
and  the  garden  not  planted.  Go  right  along."  AU 
the  time  Jerome's  mother  talked,  her  little  lean 
strong  fingers  flew,  twirling  bright  colored  rags  in 
and  out.  She  was  braiding  a  rug  for  this  same  Doc 
tor  Prescott's  wife.  The  bright  strips  spread  and 
twirled  over  her  like  snakes,  and  the  balls  wherein 
the  rags  were  wound  rolled  about  the  floor.  Most 
women  kept  their  rag  balls  in  a  basket  when  they 
braided,  but  Ann  Edwards  worked  always  in  a  sort 
of  untidy  fury. 

Jerome  went  out,  little  hungry  boy  with  the  winter 
chill  again  creeping  through  his  veins,  got  the  spade 
out  of  the  barn,  and  set  to  work  in  the  garden.  The 
garden  lay  on  the  sunny  slope  of  a  hill  which  rose 
directly  behind  the  house  ;  when  his  spade  struck  a 
stone  Jerome  would  send  it  rolling  out  of  his  way  to 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  He  got  considerable  amuse 
ment  from  that,  and  presently  the  work  warmed 
him. 

The  robins  were  singing  all  about.  Every  now  and 
then  one  flew  out  of  the  sweet  spring  distance,  lit, 
and  silently  erected  his  red  breast  among  some  plough 
ridges  lower  down.  It  was  like  a  veritable  transition 
from  sound  to  sight. 

Below  where  Jerome  spaded,  and  upon  the  left, 
stretched  long  waving  plough  ridges  where  the  corn 
was  planted.  Jerome's  father  had  been  at  work  there 
with  the  old  white  horse  that  was  drawing  wood  for 
him  to-day.  Much  of  the  garden  had  to  be  spaded 


12 


instead  of  ploughed,  because  this  same  old  white  horse 
was  needed  for  other  work. 

As  Jerome  spaded,  the  smell  of  the  fresh  earth 
came  up  in  his  face.  Now  and  then  a  gust  of  cold 
wind,  sweet  with  unseen  blossoms,  smote  him  power 
fully,  bending  his  slender  body  before  it  like  a  sap 
ling.  A  bird  flashed  past  him  with  a  blue  dazzle  of 
wings,  and  Jerome  stopped  and  looked  after  it.  It 
lit  on  the  fence  in  front  of  the  house,  and  shone 
there  in  the  sunlight  like  a  blue  precious  stone.  The 
boy  gazed  at  it,  leaning  on  his  spade.  Jerome  always 
looked  hard  out  of  all  his  little  open  windows  of  life, 
and  saw  every  precious  thing  outside  his  daily  grind  of 
hard,  toilsome  childhood  which  came  within  his  sight. 

The  bird  flew  away,  and  Jerome  spaded  again.  He 
knew  that  he  must  finish  so  much  before  dinner  or 
his  mother  would  scold.  He  was  not  afraid  of  his 
mother's  sharp  tongue,  but  he  avoided  provoking  it 
with  a  curious  politic  and  tolerant  submission  which 
he  had  learned  from  his  father.  "  Mother  ain't  well, 
you  know,  an'  she's  high-sperited,  and  we've  got  to 
humor  her  all  we  can,"  Abel  Edwards  had  said,  con 
fidentially,  many  a  time  to  his  boy,  who  had  listened 
sagely  and  nodded. 

Jerome  obeyed  his  mother  with  the  patient  obe 
dience  of  a  superior  who  yields  because  his  opponent 
is  weaker  than  he,  and  a  struggle  beneath  his  dignity, 
not  because  he  is  actually  coerced.  Neither  he  nor 
his  father  ever  answered  back  or  contradicted  ;  when 
her  shrill  voice  waxed  loudest  and  her  vituperation 
seemed  to  fairly  hiss  in  their  ears,  they  sometimes 
looked  at  each  other  and  exchanged  a  solemn  wink 
of  understanding  and  patience.  Neither  ever  opened 
mouth  in  reply. 


18 


Jerome  worked  fast  in  his  magnanimous  concession 
to  his  mother's  will,  and  had  accomplished  consid 
erable  when  his  sister  opened  the  kitchen  window, 
thrust  out  her  dark  head,  and  called  in  a  voice  shrill 
as  her  mother's,  hut  as  yet  wholly  sweet,  with  no 
harsh  notes  in  it:  "Jerome!  Jerome!  Dinner  is 
ready." 

Jerome  whooped  in  reply,  dropped  his  spade,  and 
went  leaping  down  the  hill.  When  he  entered  the 
kitchen  his  mother  was  sitting  at  the  table  and  El- 
mira  was  taking  up  the  dinner.  Elmira  was  a  small, 
pretty  girl,  with  little,  nervous  hands  and  feet,  and 
eager  black  eyes,  like  her  mother's.  She  stretched 
on  tiptoe  over  the  fire,  and  ladled  out  a  steaming 
mixture  from  the  kettle  with  an  arduous  swing  of 
her  sharp  elbow.  Elmira's  sleeves  were  rolled  up 
and  her  thin,  sharply-jointed,  girlish  arms  showed. 

"Don't  you  know  enough,  without  being  told,  to 
lift  that  kettle  off  the  fire  for  Elmira  ?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Edwards  of  Jerome. 

Jerome  lifted  the  kettle  off  the  fire  without  a 
word. 

"  It  seems  sometimes  as  if  you  might  do  something 
without  being  told/'  said  his  mother.  "You  could 
see,  if  you  had  eyes  to  your  head,  that  your  sister 
waVt  strong  enough  to  lift  that  kettle  off,  and  was 
dippin'  it  up  so's  to  make  it  lighter,  an'  the*  stew 
'most  burnin'  on." 

Jerome  made  no  response.  He  sniffed  hungrily  at 
the  savory  steam  arising  from  the  kettle.  ee  What  is 
it  ?"  he  asked  his  sister,  who  stooped  over  the  kettle 
sitting  on  the  hearth,  and  plunged  in  again  the  long- 
handled  tin  dipper. 

Mrs.  Edwards  never  allowed  any  one  to  answer  a 


14 


question  when  she  could  do  it  herself.  "It's  a  par 
snip  stew,"  said  she.  sharply.  "Elmira  dug  some  up 
in  the  old  garden-patch,  where  we  thought  they  were 
dead.  I  put  in  a  piece  of  pork,  when  I'd  ought  to 
have  saved  it.  It's  good  'nough  for  anybody,  I  don't 
care  who  'tis,  if  it's  Doctor  Prescott,  or  Squire  Mer- 
ritt,  or  the  minister.  You'd  better  be  thankful  for 
it,  both  of  you." 

"Where's  father  ?"  said  Jerome. 

"He  'ain't  come  home  yet.  I  dun'no'  where  he  is. 
He's  been  gone  long  enough  to  draw  ten  cords  of 
wood.  I  s'pose  he's  potterin'  round  somewheres — 
stopped  to  talk  to  somebody,  or  something.  I  ain't 
going  to  wait  any  longer.  He'll  have  to  eat  his  din 
ner  cold  if  he  can't  get  home." 

Elmira  put  the  dish  of  stew  on  the  table.  Jerome 
drew  his  chair  up.  Mrs.  Edwards  grasped  the  long- 
handled  dipper  preparatory  to  distributing  the  savory 
mess,  then  suddenly  stopped  and  turned  to  Elmira. 

"Elmira,"  said  she,  "you  go  into  the  parlor  an' 
git  the  china  bowl  with  pink  flowers  on  it,  an'  then 
you  go  to  the  chest  in  the  spare  bedroom  an'  get  out 
one  of  them  fine  linen  towels." 

"What  for?"  said  Elmira,  wonderingly. 

"fro  matter  what  for.    You  do  what  I  tell  you  to." 

Elmira  went  out,  and  after  a  little  reappeared  with 
the  china  bowl  and  the  linen  towel.  Jerome  sat 
waiting,  with  a  kind  of  fierce  resignation.  He  was 
almost  starved,  and  the  smell  of  the  stew  in  his  nos 
trils  made  him  fairly  ravenous. 

"  Give  it  here,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards,  and  Elmira  set 
the  bowl  before  her  mother.  It  was  large,  almost 
large  enough  for  a  punch-bowl,  and  had  probably 
been  used  for  one.  It  was  a  stately  old  dish  from 


15 


overseas,  a  relic  from  Mrs.  Edwards's  mother,  who 
had  seen  her  palmy  days  before  her  marriage.  Mrs. 
Edwards  had  also  in  her  parlor  cupboard  a  part  of  a 
set  of  blue  Indian  china  which  had  belonged  to  her 
mother.  The  children  watched  while  their  mother 
dipped  the  parsnip  stew  into  the  china  bowl.  Elmira, 
while  constantly  more  amenable  to  her  mother,  was 
at  the  moment  more  outspoken  against  her. 

"There  won't  be  enough  left  for  us,"  she  burst 
forth,  excitedly. 

"  I  guess  you'll  get  all  you  need ;  you  needn't 
worry." 

1 '  There  won't  be  enough  for  father  when  he  comes 
home,  anyhow." 

te  I  ain't  a  mite  worried  about  your  father;  I  guess 
he  won't  starve." 

Mrs.  Edwards  went  on  dipping  the  stew  into  the 
bowl  while  the  children  watched.  She  filled  it  nearly 
two-thirds 'full,  then  stopped,  and  eyed  the  girl  and 
boy  critically.  "I  guess  you'd  better  go,  Elmira," 
said  she.  "Jerome  can't  unless  he's  all  cleaned  up. 
Get  my  little  red  cashmere  shawl,  and  you  can  wear 
my  green  silk  pumpkin  hood.  Yours  don't  look  nice 
enough  to  go  there  with." 

"Can't  I  eat  dinner  first,  mother  ?"  pleaded  Elmira, 
pitifully. 

"No,  you  can't.  I  guess  you  won't  starve  if  you 
wait  a  little  while.  I  ain't  'goin'  to  send  stew  to 
folks  stone-cold.  Hurry  right  along  and  get  the 
shawl  and  hood.  Don't  stand  there  lookin'  at 
me." 

Elmira  went  out  forlornly. 

Mrs.  Edwards  began  pinning  the  linen  towel  care 
fully  over  the  bowl. 


16 


"  Let  Elmira  stay  an'  eat  her  dinner.  Fd  just  as 
lives  go.  Don't  care  if  I  don't  ever  have  anythin'  to 
eat,"  spoke  up  Jerome. 

His  mother  flashed  her  black  eyes  round  at  him. 
"Don't  you  be  saucy,  Jerome  Edwards/' said  she, 
"or  you'll  go  back  to  your  spadin'  without  a  mouth 
ful  ! "  I  told  your  sister  she  was  goin',  an'  I  don't 
want  any  words  about  it  from  either  of  you." 

When  Elmira  returned  with  her  mother's  red  cash 
mere  shawl  pinned  carefully  over  her  childish  shoul 
ders,  with  her  sharply  pretty,  hungry -eyed  little 
face  peering  meekly  out  of  the  green  gloom  of  the 
great  pumpkin  hood,  Mrs.  Edwards  gave  her  orders. 
"There,"  said  she,  "you  take  this  bowl,  an'  you  be 
real  careful  and  don't  let  it  fall  and  break  it,  nor 
slop  the  stew  over  my  best  shawl,  an'  you  carry  it 
down  the  road  to  Doctor  Prescott's ;  an'  whoever 
comes  to  the  door,  whether  it's  the  hired  girl,  or 
Lawrence,  or  the  hired  man,  you  ask  to  see  Mis'  Doc 
tor  Prescott.  Don't  you  give  this  bowl  to  none  of  the 
others,  you  mind.  An'  when  Mis'  Doctor  Prescott 
comes,  you  courtesy  an'  say,  '  Good  -  mornin',  Mis' 
Prescott.  Mis'  Abel  Edwards  sends  you  her  compli 
ments,  and  hopes  you're  enjoyin'  good  health,  an' 
begs  you'll  accept  this  bowl  of  parsnip  stew.  She 
thought  perhaps  you  hadn't  had  any  this  season."' 

Mrs.  Edwards  repeated  the  speech  in  a  little,  fine, 
mincing  voice,  presumably  the  one  which  Elmira 
was  to  use.  "Can  you  remember  that  ?"  she  asked, 
sharply,  in  her  natural  tone. 

"Yes,  ma'm." 

"  Say  it  over." 

Poor  little  Elmira  Edwards  said  it  over  like  a 
parrot,  imitating  her  mother's  fine,  stilted  tone  per- 


17 


fectly.  In  truth,  it  was  a  formula  of  presentation 
which  she  had  often  used. 

"Don't  you  forget  the  ' compliments/  an'  'I 
thought  she  hadn't  had  any  parsnip  stew  this  sea 
son/" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Take  the  bowl  up,  real  careful,  and  carry  it 
stiddy." 

Elmira  threw  back  the  ends  of  the  red  cashmere 
shawl,  lifted  the  big  bowl  in  her  two  small  hands, 
and  went  out  carrying  it  before  her.  Jerome  opened 
the  door,  and  shut  it  after  her. 

"Now  I  guess  Mis'  Doctor  Prescott  won't  think 
we're  starvin'  to  death  here,  if  her  husband  has  got 
a  mortgage  on  our  house/'  said  Mrs.  Edwards.  "I 
made  up  my  mind  that  time  she  sent  over  that  pitcher 
of  lamb  broth  that  I'd  send  her  somethin'  back,  if  I 
lived.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it  anyhow,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  rest  of  you.  I  guess  I'll  let  folks  know 
we  ain't  quite  beggars  yet/' 

Jerome  nodded.  A  look  of  entire  sympathy  with  his 
mother  came  into  his  face.  "  Guess  so  too,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Edwards  threw  back  her  head  with  stiff  pride, 
as  if  it  bore  a  crown.  "So  far,"  said  she,  "nobody 
on  this  earth  has  ever  give  me  a  thing  that  I  'ain't 
been  able  to  pay  'em  for  in  some  way.  I  guess  there's 
a  good  many  rich  folks  can't  say  's  much  as  that." 

"  Guess  so  too,"  said  Jerome. 

"Pass  over  your  plate;  you  must  be  hungry  by 
this  time,"  said  his  mother.  She  heaped  his  plate 
with  the  stew.  "There,"  said  she,  "don't  you  wait 
any  longer.  I  guess  mebbe  you'd  better  set  the  dish 
down  on  the"  hearth  to  keep  warm  for  Elmira  and  your 
father  first,  though." 


18 


"  Ain't  you  goin'  to  eat  any  yourself  ?"  asked 
Jerome. 

"I  couldn't  touch  a  mite  of  that  stew  if  you  was 
to  pay  me  for  it.  1  never  set  much  by  parsnip  stew 
myself,  anyway." 

Jerome  eyed  his  mother  soberly.  "  There's 
enough,"  said  he.  "  I've  got  all  I  can  eat  here." 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  any.  Ain't  that  enough  ? 
There's  plenty  of  stew  if  I  wanted  it,  but  I  don't.  I 
never  liked  it  any  too  well,  an'  to-day  seems  as  if  it 
fairly  went  against  my  stomach.  Set  it  down  on  the 
hearth  the  way  I  told  you  to,  an'  eat  your  dinner  be 
fore  it  gets  any  colder." 

Jerome  obeyed.  He  ate  his  plate  of  stew  ;  then 
his  mother  obliged  him  to  eat  another.  When  El- 
mira  returned  she  had  her  fill,  and  there  was  plenty 
left  for  Abel  Edwards  when  he  should  come  home. 

Jerome,  well  fed,  felt  like  another  boy  when  he 
returned  to  his  task  in  the  garden.  "  Guess  I  can 
get  this  spadin'  'most  done  this  afternoon,"  he  said 
to  himself.  He  made  the  brown  earth  fly  around 
him.  He  whistled  as  he  worked.  As  the  afternoon 
wore  on  he  began  to  wonder  if  he  could  not  finish 
the  garden  before  his  father  got  home.  He  was  sure 
he  had  not  come  as  yet,  for  he  had  kept  an  eye  on 
the  road,  and  besides  he  would  have  heard  the  heavy 
rattle  of  the  wood-wagon.  "Father '11  be  real  tickled 
when  he  sees  the  garden  all  done,"  said  Jerome,  and 
he  stopped  whistling  and  bent  all  his  young  spirit 
and  body  to  his  work.  He  never  thought  of  feeling 
anxious  about  his  father. 

At  five  o'clock  the  back  door  of  the  Edwards  house 
opened.  Elmira  came  out  with  a  shawl  over  her 
In>ad  and  hurried  up  the  hill.  "Ob,  Jerome,"  she 


panted,  when  she  got  up  to  him.  "You  must  stop 
working,  mother  says,  and  go  right  straight  off  to 
the  ten-acre  lot.  Father  'ain't  come  home  yet,  an' 
we're  dreadful  worried  about  him.  She  says  she's 
afraid  something  has  happened  to  him." 

Jerome  stuck  his  spade  upright  in  the  ground  and 
stared  at  her.  "What  does  she  s'pose  has  happened  ?" 
he  said,  slowly.  Jerome  had  no  imagination  for  dis 
asters. 

"  She  thinks  maybe  he's  fell  down,  or  some  wood's 
fell  on  him,  or  Peter's  run  away." 

"  Peter  wouldn't  ever  run  away  ;  it's  much  as  ever 
he'll  walk  lately,  an'  father  don't  ever  fall  down." 

Elmira  fairly  danced  up  and  down  in  the  fresh 
mould.  She  caught  her  brother's  arm  and  twitched 
it  and  pushed  him  fiercely.  "  Go  along,  go  along  !" 
she  cried.  "  Go  right  along,  Jerome  Edwards  !  I 
tell  you  something  dreadful  has  happened  to  father. 
Mother  says  so.  Go  right  along  !" 

Jerome  pulled  himself  away  from  her  nervous 
clutch,  and  collected  himself  for  flight.  "  He  was 
goin'  to  carry  that  wood  to  Doctor  Prescott's,"  said 
he,  reflectively.  "'Ain't  any  sense  goin'  to  the  ten- 
acre  lot  till  I  see  if  he's  been  there." 

"  It's  on  the  way,"  cried  Elmira,  frantically. 
"  Hurry  up  !  Oh,  do  hurry  up,  Jerome  !  Poor  fa 
ther  !  Mother  says  he's  —  fell  —  down—  Elmira 
crooked  her  little  arm  around  her  face  and  broke  into 
a  long  wail  as  she  started  down  the  hill.  "  Poor — 
father — oh— oh — poor — father  !"  floated  back  like  a 
wake  of  pitiful  sound. 


CHAPTER  II 

JEROME  started,  and  once  started  he  raced.  Long- 
legged,  light-flanked,  long-winded,  and  underfed,  he 
had  the  adaptability  for  speed  of  a  little  race-horse. 
Jerome  Edwards  was  quite  a  famous  boy  in  the  vil 
lage  for  his  prowess  in  running.  No  other  boy  could 
equal  him.  Marvellous  stories  were  told  about  it. 
"Jerome  Edwards,  he  can  run  half  a  mile  in  five 
minutes  any  day,  yes  he  can,  sir/'  the  village  boys 
bragged  if  perchance  a  cousin  from  another  town 
came  a-visiting  and  endeavored  to  extol  himself  and 
his  comrades  beyond  theirs.  In  some  curious  fashion 
Jerome,  after  he  had  out-speeded  all  the  other  boys, 
furnished  them  with  his  own  victories  for  a  boast. 
They  seemed,  in  exulting  over  the  glory  of  this  boy 
of  their  village,  to  forget  that  the  glory  came  only 
through  their  defeat.  It  was  national  pride  on  a 
very  small  and  childish  scale. 

Jerome,  swift  little  runner  that  he  was,  ran  that 
clay  as  he  had  never  run  before.  The  boys  whom  he 
met  stood  aside  hastily,  gaped  down  the  road  behind 
him  to  see  another  runner  laboring  far  in  the  rear, 
and  then,  when  none  appeared,  gaped  after  his  flying 
heels. 

"  Wonder  what  he's  a-runnin'  that  way  fur  ?"  said 
one  boy. 

"  Ain't  nobody  a-tryin'  to  ketch  up  with  him,  fur's 
I  can  see,"  said  another. 


"Mebbe  his  mother's  took  worse,  an' he's  a-run- 
nin'  fur  the  doctor/7  said  a  third,  who  was  Henry 
Judd,  a  distant  cousin  of  Jerome's. 

The  boys  stood  staring  even  when  Jerome  was 
quite  out  of  sight.  Jerome  had  about  three-quarters 
of  a  mile  to  run  to  Doctor  Prescott's  house.  He  was 
almost  there  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  team  com 
ing.  "  There's  father,  now,"  he  thought,  and  stood 
still,  breathing  hard.  Although  Jerome's  scanty 
food  made  him  a  swift  runner,  it  did  not  make  him 
a  strong  one. 

The  team  came  rattling  slowly  on.  The  old  white 
horse  which  drew  it  planted  his  great  hoofs  lumber- 
in  gly  in  the  tracks,  nodding  at  every  step. 

As  it  came  nearer,  Jerome,  watching,  gave  a  quick 
gasp.  The  wagon  contained  wood  nicely  packed  ; 
the  reins  were  wound  carefully  around  one  of  the 
stakes;  and  there  was  no  driver.  Jerome  tried  to 
call  out,  tried  to  run  forward,  but  he  could  not.  He 
could  only  stand  still,  watching,  his  boyish  face 
deadly  white,  his  eyes  dilating.  The  old  white  horse 
came  on,  dragging  his  load  faithfully  and  steadily 
towards  his  home.  He  never  swerved  from  his 
tracks  except  once,  when  he  turned  out  carefully  for 
a  bad  place  in  the  road,  where  the  ground  seemed 
to  be  caving  in,  which  Abel  Edwards  had  always 
avoided  with  a  loaded  team.  There  was  something 
awful  about  this  old  animal,  with  patient  and  labori 
ous  stupidity  in  every  line  of  his  plodding  body,  obey 
ing  still  that  higher  intelligence  which  was  no  longer 
visible  at  his  guiding  -  reins,  and  perhaps  had  gone 
out  of  sight  forever.  It  had  all  the  uncanny  horror 
of  a  headless  spectre  advancing  down  the  road. 

Jerome  collected  himself  when  the  white  horse 


22 


came  alongside.  "  Whoa  !  Whoa,  Peter  I"  he  gasped 
out.  The  horse  stopped  and  stood  still,  his  great 
forefeet  flung  stiffly  forward,  his  head  and  ears  and 
neck  hanging  as  inertly  as  a  broken  tree-bough  with 
all  its  leaves  drooping. 

The  boy  stumbled  weakly. to  the  side  of  the  wagon 
and  stretched  himself  up  on  tiptoe.  There  was  noth 
ing  there  but  the  wood.  He  stood  a  minute,  think 
ing.  Then  he  began  searching  for  the  hitching-rope 
in  the  front  of  the  wagon,  but  he  could  not  find  it. 
Finally  he  led  the  horse  to  the  side  of  the  road,  un 
wound  the  reins  from  the  stake,  and  fastened  him  as 
well  as  he  could  to  a  tree. 

Then  he  went  on  down  the  road.  His  knees  felt 
weak  under  him,  but  still  he  kept  up  a  good  pace. 
When  he  reached  the  Prescott  place  he  paused  and 
looked  irresolutely  a  moment  through  the  trees  at 
the  great  square  mansion  -  house,  with  its  green, 
glancing  window-panes. 

Then  he  ran  straight  on.  The  ten-acre  wood-lot 
which  belonged  to  his  father  was  about  a  half-mile 
farther.  It  was  a  birch  and  chestnut  wood,  and  was 
full  of  the  green  shimmer  of  new  leaves  and  the  sil 
very  glistening  of  white  boughs  as  delicate  as  maid 
ens'  arms.  There  was  a  broad  cart -path  leading 
through  it.  Jerome  entered  this  directly  when  he 
reached  the  wood.  Then  he  began  calling.  "  Fa 
ther  !"  he  called.  "Father  !  father  !"  over  and  over 
again,  stopping  between  to  listen.  There  was  no 
sound  in  response ;  there  was  no  sound  in  the  wood 
except  the  soft  and  elusive  rustling  of  the  new  foli 
age,  like  the  rustling  of  the  silken  garments  of  some 
one  in  hiding  or  some  one  passing  out  of  sight.  It 
brought  also  at  this  early  season  a  strange  sense  of 


a  presence  in  the  wood.  Jerome  felt  it,  and  called 
with  greater  importunity:  "Father!  father!  father, 
where  be  you  ?  Father  \" 

Jerome  looked  very  small  among  the  trees  —  no 
more  than  a  little  pale  child.  His  voice  rang  out 
shrill  and  piteous.  It  seemed  as  much  a  natural 
sound  of  the  wood  as  a  bird's,  and  was  indeed  one  of 
the  primitive  notes  of  nature  :  the  call  of  that  most 
helpless  human  young  for  its  parent  and  its  shield. 

Jerome  pushed  on,  calling,  until  he  came  to  the 
open  space  where  his  father  had  toiled  felling  trees 
all  winter.  Cords  of  wood  were  there,  all  neatly 
piled  and  stacked.  The  stumps  between  them  were 
sending  out  shoots  of  tender  green.  "  Father  !  fa 
ther  \"  Jerome  called,  but  this  time  more  cautiously, 
hushing  his  voice  a  little.  He  thought  that  his  fa 
ther  might  be  lying  there  among  the  stumps,  injured 
in  some  way.  He  remembered  how  a  log  had  once 
fallen  on  Samuel  Lapham's  leg  and  broken  it  when 
he  was  out  alone  in  the  woods,  and  he  had  lain  there 
a  whole  day  before  anybody  found  him.  He  thought 
something  like  that  might  have  happened  to  his  fa 
ther.  He  searched  everywhere,  peering  with  his 
sharp  young  eyes  among  the  stumps  and  between 
the  piles  of  wood.  "Mebbe  father's  fainted  away," 
he  muttered. 

Finally  he  became  sure  that  his  father  was  nowhere 
in  the  clearing,  and  he  raised  his  voice  again  and 
shouted,  and  hallooed,  and  listened,  and  hallooed 
again,  and  got  no  response. 

Suddenly  a  chill  seemed  to  strike  Jerome's  heart. 
He  thought  of  the  pond.  Little  given  as  he  was  to 
forebodings  of  evil,  when  once  he  was  possessed  of 
one  it  became  a  certainty. 


"  Father's  fell  in  the  pond  and  got  drowned/'  he 
burst  out  with  a  great  sob.  "  What  will  mother  do  ?" 

The  boy  went  forward,  stumbling  half  blindly  over 
the  stumps.  Once  he  fell,  bruising  his  knee  severely, 
and  picked  himself  up,  sobbing  piteously.  All  the 
child  in  Jerome  had  asserted  itself. 

Beyond  the  clearing  was  a  stone  wall  that  bounded 
Abel  Edwards's  property.  Beyond  that  was  a  little 
grove  of  old  thick-topped  pine-trees;  beyond  that 
the  little  woodland  pond.  It  was  very  shallow  in 
places,  but  it  never  dried  up,  and  was  said  to  have 
deep  holes  in  it.  The  boys  told  darkly  braggart 
stories  about  this  pond.  They  had  stood  on  this  rock 
and  that  rock  with  poles  of  fabulous  length  •  they 
had  probed  the  still  water  of  the  pond,  and  "never 
once  hit  the  bottom,  sir."  They  had  flung  stones 
with  all  their  might,  and,  listening  sharply  forward 
like  foxes,  had  not  heard  them  "  strike  bottom,  sir." 

One  end  of  this  pond,  reaching  up  well  among  the 
pine-trees,  had  the  worst  repute,  and  was  called  in 
deed  a  darkly  significant  name — the  "Dead  Hole." 
It  was  confidently  believed  by  all  the  village  children 
to  have  no  bottom  at  all.  There  was  a  belief  current 
among  them  that  once,  before  they  were  born,  a  man 
had  been  drowned  there,  and  his  body  never  found. 

They  would  stand  on  the  shore  and  look  with  hor 
ror,  which  yet  gave  somehow  a  pleasant  titillation  to 
their  youthful  spirits,  at  this  water  which  bore  such 
an  evil  name.  Their  elders  did  not  need  to  caution 
them ;  even  the  most  venturesome  had  an  awe  of  the 
Dead  Hole,  and  would  not  meddle  with  it  unduly. 

Jerome  climbed  over  the  stone  wall.  The  laud  on 
the  other  side  belonged  to  Doctor  Prescott.  He 
went  through  the  grove  of  pine-trees  and  reached 


25 


the  pond — the  end  called  the  Dead  Hole.  He  stood 
there  looking  and  listening.  It  was  a  small  sheet  of 
water ;  the  other  shore,  swampy  and  skirted  with 
white-flowering  bushes  and  young  trees,  looked  very 
near;  a  cloying,  honey  sweetness  came  across,  and 
a  silvery  smoke  of  mist  was  beginning  to  curl  up 
from  it.  The  frogs  were  clamorous,  and  every  now 
and  then  came  the  bass  boom  of  a  bull-frog.  A  red 
light  from  the  westward  sun  came  through  the  thin 
growth  opposite,  and  lay  over  the  pond  and  the 
shore.  Little  swarms  of  gnats  danced  in  it. 

A  swarm  of  the  little  gauzy  things,  so  slight  and 
ephemeral  that  they  seemed  rather  a  symbolism  of 
life  than  life  itself,  whirled  before  the  boy's  wild, 
tearful  eyes,  and  he  moved  aside  and  looked  down, 
and  then  cried  out  and  snatched  something  from  the 
ground  at  his  feet.  It  was  the  hat  Abel  Edwards 
had  worn  when  he  left  home  that  morning.  Jerome 
stood  holding  his  father's  hat,  gazing  at  it  with  a 
look  in  his  face  like  an  old  man's.  Indeed,  it  may 
have  been  that  a  sudden  old  age  of  the  spirit  came 
in  that  instant  over  the  boy.  He  had  not  before 
conceived  of  anything  but  an  accident  happening  to 
his  father ;  now  all  at  once  he  saw  plainly  that  if  his 
father,  Abel  Edwards,  had  come  to  his  death  in  the 
pond  it  must  have  been  through  his  own  choice. 
"  He  couldn't  have  fell  in,"  muttered  Jerome,  with 
stiif  lips,  looking  at  the  gently  curving  shore  and 
looking  at  the  hat. 

Suddenly  he  straightened  himself,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  desperate  resolution  came  into  his  face.  He 
set  his  teeth  hard  ;  somehow,  whether  through  in 
herited  instincts  or  through  impressions  he  had  got 
from  his  mother,  he  had  a  firm  conviction  that  sui- 


26 


cide  was  a  horrible  disgrace  to  the  dead  man  himself 
and  to  his  family. 

"  Nobody  shall  ever  know  it,"  the  boy  thought. 
He  nodded  fiercely,  as  if  to  confirm  it,  and  began 
picking  up  stones  from  the  shore  of  the  pond.  He 
filled  the  crown  of  the  hat  with  them,  got  a  string 
out  of  his  pocket,  tied  it  firmly  around  the  crown, 
making  a  strong  knot ;  then  he  swung  his  arm  back 
at  the  shoulder,  brought  it  forward  with  a  wide 
sweep,  and  flung  the  hat  past  the  middle  of  the  Dead 
Hole. 

" There,"  said  Jerome;  "guess  nobody  "11  ever 
know  now.  There  ain't  no  bottom  to  the  Dead 
Hole."  The  boy  hurried  out  of  the  woods  and  down 
the  road  again.  When  he  reached  the  Prescott 
house  a  man  was  just  coming  out  of  the  yard,  fol 
lowing  the  path  from  the  south  door.  When  he 
came  up  to  Jerome  he  eyed  him  curiously ;  then  he 
grasped  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Sick?"  said  he. 

"No,"  said  Jerome. 

"What  on  airth  makes  you  look  so  ?" 

"Father's  lost." 

"  Lost— where's  he  lost  ?     What  d'ye  mean  ?" 

"Went  to  get  a  load  of  wood  for  Doctor  Prescott 
this  mornin',  an'  'ain't  got  home." 

"  Now,  I  want  to  know  !  Didn't  I  see  his  team  go 
up  the  road  a  few  minutes  ago  ?" 

Jerome  nodded.  "Met  it,  an'  he  wa'n't  on," 
said  he. 

"  Lord  !"  cried  the  man,  and  stared  at  him.  He 
was  a  middle-aged  man,  with  a  small  wiry  shape  and 
a  gait  like  a  boy's.  His  name  was  Jake  Noyes,  and 
he  was  the  doctor's  hired  man.  He  took  care  of  his 


r: 


27 


horse,  and  drove  for  him,  and  some  said  helped  him 
compound  his  prescriptions.  There  was  great  re 
spect  in  the  village  for  Jake  Noyes.  He  had  a  kind 
of  reflected  glory  from  the  doctor,  and  some  of  his 
own. 

Jerome  pulled  his  shoulder  away.  "  Got  to  be 
gom',"  said  he. 

" Stop,"  said  Jake  Noyes.  "This  has  got  to  be 
looked  into.  He  must  have  got  hurt.  He  must  be 
in  the  woods  where  he  was  workinV 

"Ain't.  Fve  been  there,"  said  Jerome,  shortly, 
and  broke  away. 

"Where  did  ye  look?" 

"Everywhere,"  the  boy  called  back.  But  Jake 
followed  him  up. 

"Stop  a  minute,"  said  he;  "I  want  to  know. 
Did  you  go  as  fur  'a  the  pond  ?" 

"What  should  I  want  to  go  to  the  pond  for,  like 
to  know  ?"  Jerome  looked  around  at  him  fiercely. 

"I  didn't  know  but  he  might  have  fell  in  the 
pond ;  it's  pretty  near." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  think  my  father  would 
jump  in  the  pond  for?"  Jerome  demanded. 

"  Lord,  I  didn't  say  he  jumped  in.  I  said  fell 
in." 

"You  know  he  couldn't  have  fell  in.  You  know 
he  would  have  had  to  gone  in  of  his  own  accord.  I'll 
let  you  know  my  father  wa'n't  the  man  to  do  any 
thing  like  that,  Jake  Noyes  !"  The  boy  actually 
shook  his  puny  fist  in  the  man's  face.  "  Say  it 
again,  if  ye  dare  !"  he  cried. 

"  Lord  !"  said  Jake  Noyes,  with  half-comical  con 
sternation.  He  screwed  up  one  blue  eye  after  a 
fashion  he  had — people  said  he  had  acquired  it  from 


28 


dropping  drugs  for  the  doctor — and  looked  with  the 
other  at  the  boy. 

"  Say  it  again  an'  Fll  kill  ye,  I  will  I"  cried  Je 
rome,  his  voice  breaking  into  a  hoarse  sob,  and 
was  off. 

"  Be  ye  crazy  ?"  Jake  Noyes  called  after  him.  He 
stood  staring  at  him  a  jninute,  then  went  into  the 
house  on  a  run. 

Jerome  ran  to  the  place  where  he  had  left  his 
father's  team,  untied  the  horse,  climbed  up  on  the 
seat,  and  drove  home.  He  could  not  go  fast ;  the 
old  horse  could  proceed  no  faster  than  a  walk  with 
a  load.  When  he  came  in  sight  of  home  he  saw 
a  blue  flutter  at  the  gate.  It  was  Elmira's  shawl ; 
she  was  out  there  watching.  When  she  saw  the 
team  she  came  running  down  the  road  to  meet  it. 
"  Where's  father  ?"  she  cried  out.  "  Jerome,  where's 
father  ?" 

"  Dun'no',"  said  Jerome.  He  sat  high  above  her, 
holding  the  reins.  His  pale,  set  face  looked  over 
her  head. 

"Jerome — haven't  you — seen — father  ?" 

"No." 

Elmira  burst  out  with  a  great  wail.  "  Oh,  Jerome, 
where's  father  ?  Jerome,  where  is  he  ?  Is  he  killed  ? 
Oh,  father,  father !" 

"  Keep  still,"  said  Jerome.    "  Mother  '11  hear  you." 

"  Oh,  Jerome,  where's  father  ?" 

"I  tell  you,  hold  your  tongue.  Do  you  want  to 
kill  mother,  too  ?" 

Poor  little  Elmira,  running  alongside  the  team, 
wept  convulsively.  "Elmira,  I  tell  you  to  keep 
still,"  said  Jerome,  in  such  a  voice  that  she  imme 
diately  choked  back  her  sobs. 


Jerome  drew  up  the  wood-team  at  the  gate  with  a 
great  creak.  "Stand  here  'side  of  the  horse  a  min 
ute/'  he  said  to  Elmira.  He  swung  himself  off  the 
load  and  went  up  the  path  to  the  house.  As  he  drew 
near  the  door  he  could  hear  his  mother's  chair.  Ann 
Edwards,  crippled  as  she  was,  managed,  through  some 
strange  manipulation  of  musples,  to  move  herself  in 
her  rocking-chair  all  about  the  house.  Now  the  jerk 
ing  scrape  of  the  rockers  on  the  uncarpeted  floor 
sounded  loud.  When  Jerome  opened  the  door  he 
saw  his  mother  hitching  herself  rapidly  back  and 
forth  in  a  fashion  she  had  when  excited.  He  had 
seen  her  do  so  before,  a  few  times. 

When  she  saw  Jerome  she  stopped  short  and 
screwed  up  her  face  before  him  as  if  to  receive  a 
blow.  She  did  not  ask  a  question. 

"  I  met  the  team  comin'  home/'  said  Jerome. 

Still  his  mother  said  nothing,  but  kept  that  cring 
ing  face  before  a  coming  blow. 

"Father  wa'n't  on  it,"  said  Jerome. 

Still  his  mother  waited. 

"I  hitched  the  horse,"  said  Jerome,  "and  then  I 
went  up  to  the  ten-acre  lot,  and  I  looked  everywhere. 
He  ain't  there." 

Suddenly  Ann  Edwards  seemed  to  fall  back  upon 
herself  before  his  eyes.  Her  head  sank  helplessly ; 
she  slipped  low  in  he^  chair. 

Jerome  ran  to  the  water -pail,  dipped  out  some 
water,  and  sprinkled  his  mother's  face.  Then  he 
rubbed  her  little  lean  hands  with  his  hard,  boyish 
palm.  He  had  seen  his  mother  faint  before.  In  fact, 
he  had  been  all  prepared  for  it  now. 

Presently  she  began  to  gasp  and  struggle  feebly, 
and  he  knew  she  was  coming  to.  "  Feel  better  ?"  he 


30 


asked,  in  a  loud  voice,  as  if  she  were  miles  away  ;  in 
deed,  he  had  a  feeling  that  she  was.  "  Feel  better, 
mother  ?" 

Mrs.  Edwards  raised  herself.  "  Your — father  has 
fell  down  and  died,"  she  said.  ' '  There  needn't  any 
body  say  anything  else.  Wipe  this  water  off  my  face. 
Get  a  towel."  Jerome  obeyed. 

"  There  needn't  anybody  say  anything  else,"  re 
peated  his  mother. 

"I  guess  they  needn't,  either/' assented  Jerome, 
coming  with  the  towel  and  wiping  her  face  gently. 
"  I'd  like  to  hear  anybody/'  he  added,  fiercely. 

"  He's  fell  down — and  died,"  said  his  mother.  She 
made  sounds  like  sobs  as  she  spoke,  but  there  were 
no  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  s'pose  I  ought  to  go  an'  take  the  horse  out/' 
said  Jerome. 

"Well." 

"I'll  send  Elmira  in;  she's  holdin'  him." 

"Well." 

Jerome  lighted  a  candle  first,  for  it  was  growing 
dark,  and  went  out.  "You  go  in  and  stay  with 
mother,"  he  said  to  Elmira,  "  an'  don't  you  go  to 
cryin'  an'  makin'  her  worse — she's  been  faintin'  away. 
Any  tea  in  the  house  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  little  girl,  trying  to  control  her 
quivering  face. 

"Make  her  some  hot  porridge,  then — she'd  ought 
to  have  something,  You  can  do  that,  can't  you  ?" 

Elmira  nodded ;  she  dared  not  speak  for  fear  she 
should  cry. 

"  Go  right  in,  then,"  said  Jerome  ;  and  she  obey 
ed,  keeping  her  face  turned  away.  Her  childish  back 
looked  like  an  old  woman's  as  she  entered  the  door. 


Jerome  unharnessed  the  horse,  led  him  into  the 
barn,  fed  him,  and  drew  some  water  for  him  from 
the  well.  When  he  came  out  of  the  barn,  after  it  was 
all  done,  he  saw  Doctor  Prescott's  chaise  turning  into 
the  yard.  The  doctor  and  Jake  Noyes  were  in  it. 
When  the  chaise  stopped,  Jerome  went  up  to  it, 
bobbed  his  head  and  scraped  his  foot.  A  handsome, 
keenly  scowling  face  looked  out  of  the  chaise  at  him. 
Doctor  Seth  Prescott  was  over  fifty,  with  a  smooth- 
shaven  face  as  finely  cut  as  a  woman's,  with  bright 
blue  eyes  under  bushy  brows,  and  a  red  scratch-wig. 
Before  years  and  snows  and  rough  winds  had  darkened 
and  seamed  his  face,  he  had  been  a  delicately  fair 
man.  "  Has  he  come  yet  ?"  he  demanded,  peremp 
torily. 

Jerome  bobbed  and  scraped  again.     "  No,  sir." 

"  You  didn't  see  a  sign  of  him  in  the  woods  ?" 

Jerome  hesitated  visibly. 

The  doctor's  eyes  shone  more  sharply.  "  You 
didn't,  eh  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jerome. 

"  Does  your  mother  know  it  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  How  is  she  ?" 

"  She  fainted  away,  but  she's  better." 

The  doctor  got  stiffly  out  of  the  chaise,  took  his 
medicine -chest,  and  went  into  the  house.  "Stay 
here  till  I  come  out,"  he  ordered  Jerome,  without 
looking  back. 

"The  doctor's  goin'  to  send  a  posse  out  lookin' 
with  lanterns,"  Jake  Noyes  told  Jerome. 

Jerome  made  a  grunt,  both  surly  and  despairing, 
in  response.  He  was  leaning  against  the  wheel  of 
the  chaise  ;  he  felt  strangely  weak. 


32 


"  Mebbe  we'll  find  him  'live  an'  well/'  said  Jake, 
consolingly. 

"No,  ye  won't." 

"  Mebbe  'twon't  be  nothin'  wuss  than  a  broken  bone 
noway,  an'  the  doctor,  he  can  fix  that." 

Jerome  shook  his  head. 

"  The  doctor,  he's  goin'  to  do  everything  that  can 
be  done,"  said  Jake.  "  He's  sent  Lawrence  over  to 
East  Corners  for  some  ropes  an'  grapplin'-hooks." 

Then  Jerome  roused  himself.  "  What  for  ?"  he 
demanded,  in  a  furious  voice. 

Jake  hesitated  and  colored.  "  Mebbe  I  hadn't 
ought  to  have  said  that,"  he  stammered.  "Course 
there  ain't  no  need  of  havin'  'em.  It's  just  because 
the  doctor  wants  to  do  everything  he  can." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Well — you  know  there's  the  pond — an' — " 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  my  father  didn't  go  near  the 
pond  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  s'pose  he  did,"  said  Jake,  shrewdly ; 
"  but  it  won't  do  no  harm  to  drag  it,  an'  then  every 
body  will  know  for  sure  he  didn't." 

"  Can't  drag  it  anyhow,"  said  Jerome,  and  there 
was  an  odd  accent  of  triumph  in  his  voice.  "  The 
Dead  Hole  'ain't  got  any  bottom." 

Jake  laughed.  "  That's  a  darned  lie,"  said  he. 
"  I  helped  drag  it  myself  once,  forty  year  ago  ;  a  girl 
by  the  name  of  'Lizy  Ann  Gooch  used  to  live  'bout 
a  mile  below  here  on  the  river  road,  .was  missin'.  She 
wa'n't  there  ;  found  her  bones  an'  her  straw  bonnet 
in  the  swamp  two  years  afterwards,  but,  Lord,  we 
dragged  the  Dead  Hole  —  scraped  bottom  every 
time." 

Jerome  stared  at  him,  his  chin  dropping. 


"Of  course  it  ain't  nothin'  but  a  form,  an"  we 
sha'n't  find  him  there  any  more  than  we  did  'Lizy 
Ann/'  said  Jake  Noyes,  consolingly. 

Doctor  Prescott  came  out  of  the  house,,  and  as  he 
opened  the  door  a  shrill  cry  of  "  There  needn't  any 
body  say  anything  else  "  came  from  within. 

fm  Now  you'd  better  go  in  and  stay  with  your 
mother/'  ordered  Doctor  Prescott.  "  I  have  given 
her  a  composing  powder.  Keep  her  as  quiet  as  pos 
sible,  and  don't  talk  to  her  about  your  father." 

Doctor  Prescott  got  into  his  chaise  and  drove  away 
up  the  road,  and  Jerome  went  in  to  his  mother.  For 
a  while  she  kept  her  rocking-chair  in  constant  mo 
tion  ;  she  swung  back  and  forth  or  hitched  fiercely 
across  the  floor ;  she  repeated  her  wild  cry  that  her 
husband  had  fallen  down  and  died,  and  nobody  need 
say  anything  different  ;  she  prayed  and  repeated 
Scripture  texts.  Then  she  succumbed  to  the  Do 
ver's  powder  which  the  doctor  had  given  her,  and 
fell  asleep  in  her  chair.' 

Jerome  and  Elmira  dared  not  awake  her  that  she 
might  go  to  bed.  They  sat,  each  at  a  window,  star 
ing  out  into  the  night,  watching  for  their  father,  or 
some  one  to  come  with  news  that  his  body  was  found 
— they  did  not  know  which.  Now  and  then  they 
heard  the  report  of  a  gun,  but  did  not  know  what  it 
meant.  Sometimes  Elmira  wept  a  little,  but  softly, 
that  she  might  not  waken  her  mother. 

The  moon  was  full,  and  it  was  almost  as  light  as 
day  outside.  When  a  little  after  midnight  a  team 
came  in  sight  they  could  tell  at  once  that  it  was  the 
doctor's  chaise,  and  Jake  Noyes  was  driving.  The 
boy  and  girl  left  the  windows  and  stole  noiselessly 
out  of  the  house.  Jake  drew  up  at  the  gate.  "You'd 


34 


better  go  in  an7  go  to  bed,  both  on  yon,"  he  said. 
"We'll  find  him  safe  an'  sound  somewheres  to-mor 
row.  There's  nigh  two  hundred  men  an'  boys  out 
with  lanterns  an'  torches,  an'  firm'  guns  for  signals. 
We'll  find  him  with  nothing  wuss  than  a  broken 
bone  to -morrow.  We've  dragged  the  whole  pond, 
an'  he  ain't  there,  sure." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  pond  undoubtedly  partook  somewhat  of  the 
nature  of  an  Eastern  myth  in  this  little  New  Eng 
land  village.  Although  with  the  uncompromising 
practicality  of  their  natures  the  people  had  given  it 
a  name  so  directly  significant  as  to  make  it  lose  all 
poetical  glamour,  and  render  it  the  very  common 
place  of  ghastliness,  it  still  appealed  to  their  imagi 
nations. 

The  laws  of  natural  fancy  obtained  here  as  every 
where  else,  although  in  small  and  homely  measure. 
The  village  children  found  no  nymphs  in  the  trees 
of  their  New  England  woods.  If  there  were  fauns 
among  them,  and  the  children  took  their  pointed 
ears  for  leaves  as  they  lay  sleeping  in  the  under 
growth,  they  never  knew  it.  They  had  none  of  these, 
but  they  had  their  pond,  with  its  unfathomable 
depth.  They  could  not  give  that  up  for  any  testi 
mony  of  people  with  ropes  and  grappling  -  hooks. 
Had  they  not  sounded  it  in  vain  with  farther-reach 
ing  lines  ? 

Not  a  boy  in  the  village  believed  that  the  bottom 
of  that  famous  Dead  Hole  had  once  been  touched. 
Jerome  Edwards  certainly  did  not.  Then,  too,  they 
had  not  brought  his  father's  hat  to  light— or,  if  they 
had,  had  made  no  account  of  it. 

Some  of  the  elders,  as  well  as  the  boys,  believed  in 
their  hearts  that  the  pond  had  not,  after  all,  been  sat- 


isfactorily  examined,  and  that  Abel  Edwards  might 
still  lie  there.  "Ever  since  I  can  remember  any 
thing,  I've  heard  that  pond  in  that  place  'ain't  got 
any  bottom/'  one  old  man  .would  say,  and  another 
add,  with  triumphant  conclusion,  "  If  he  ain't  there, 
where  is  he  ?" 

That  indeed  was  the  question.  All  solutions  of 
mysteries  have  their  possibilities  in  the  absence  of 
proof.  No  trace  of  Abel  Edwards  had  been  found 
in  the  woodland  where  he  had  been  working,  and  no 
trace  of  him  for  miles  around.  The  search  had  been 
thorough.  Other  ponds  of  less  evil  repute  had  also 
been  dragged,  and  the  little  river  which  ran  through 
the  village,  and  two  brooks  of  considerable  impor 
tance  in  the  spring.  If  Abel  Edwards  had  taken  his 
own  life,  the  conclusion  was  inevitable  that  his  body 
must  lie  in  the  pond,  which  had  always  been  re 
ported  unfathomable,  and  might  be,  after  all. 

"The  way  I  look  at  it  is  this,"  said  Simon  Basset 
one  night  in  the  village  store.  He  raised  the  index- 
finger  of  his  right  hand,  pointed  it  at  the  company, 
shook  it  authoritatively  as  he  spoke,  as  if  to  call  oc 
ular  attention  also  to  his  words.  "Ef  Abel  Ed 
wards  did  make  'way  with  himself  any  other  way  than 
by  jumping  into  the  Dead  Hole,  what  did  he  do  with 
his  remains  ?  He  couldn't  bury  himself  nohow." 
Simon  Basset  chuckled  dryly  and  looked  at  the 
others  with  conclusive  triumph.  His  face  was  full 
of  converging  lines  of  nose  and  chin  and  brows, 
which  seemed  to  bring  it  to  a  general  point  of  craft 
and  astuteness.  Even  his  grizzled  hair  slanted  for 
ward  in  a  stiff  cowlick  over  his  forehead,  and  his 
face  bristled  sharply  with  his  gray  beard.  Simon 
Basset  was  the  largest  land-owner  in  the  village,  and 


the  dust  and  loam  of  his  own  acres  seemed  to  have 
formed  a  gray  grime  over  all  his  awkward  homespun 
garb.  Never  a  woman  he  met  but  looked  apprehen 
sively  at  his  great,  clomping,  mud-clogged  boots. 

It  was  believed  by  many  that  Simon  Basset  never 
removed  a  suit  of  clothes,  after  he  had  once  put  it 
on,  until  it  literally  dropped  from  him  in  rags.  He 
was  also  said  to  have  argued,  when  taken  to  task  for 
this  most  untidy  custom,  that  birds  and  animals  never 
shifted  their  coats  until  they  were  worn  out,  and  it 
behooved  men  to  follow  their  innocent  and  natural 
habits  as  closely  as  possible. 

Simon  Basset,  sitting  in  an  old  leather-cushioned 
arm-chair  in  the  midst  of  the  lounging  throng,  waited 
for  applause  after  his  conclusive  opinion  upon  Abel 
Edwards's  disappearance  ;  but  there  were  only  affirm 
ative  grunts  from  a  few.  Many  had  their  own 
views. 

"I  ain't  noways  clear  in  my  mind  that  Abel  did 
kill  himself,"  said  a  tall  man,  with  a  great  length  of 
thin,  pale  whiskers  falling  over  his  breast.  He  had 
a  vaguely  elongated  effect,  like  a  shadow,  and  had, 
moreover,  a  way  of  standing  behind  people  like  one. 
When  he  spoke  everybody  started  and  looked  around 
at  him. 

"  Fd  like  to  know  what  you  think  did  happen  to 
him,  Adoniram  Judd,"  cried  Simon  Basset. 

"  I  don't  think  Abel  Edwards  ever  killed  himself," 
repeated  the  tall  man,  solemnly.  His  words  had 
weight,  for  he  was  a  distant  relative  of  the  missing 
man. 

"  Do  you  know  of  anybody  that  had  anything  agin 
him  ?"  demanded  Simon  Basset. 

"  No,  I  dun'no'  's  I  do/'  admitted  the  tall  man. 


38 


"  Then  what  in  creation  would  anybody  want  to 
kill  him  for  ?  Guess  they  wouldn't  be  apt  to  do  it 
for  anything  they  would  get  out  of  Abel  Edwards."' 
Simon  Basset  chuckled  triumphantly  ;  and  in  re 
sponse  there  was  a  loud  and  exceedingly  bitter  laugh 
from  a  man  sitting  on  an  old  stool  next  to  him.  Ev 
erybody  started,  for  the  man  was  Ozias  Lamb,  Abel 
Edwards's  brother-in-law. 

"  What  ye  laughin'  at  ?"  inquired  Simon  Basset, 
defiantly  ;  but  he  edged  his  chair  away  a  little  at  the 
same  time.  Ozias  Lamb  had  the  reputation  of  a  very 
high  temper. 

" Mebbe,"  said  Ozias  Lamb,  "somebody  killed  poor 
Abel  for  his  mortgage.  I  dun'no'  of  anything  else  he 
had."  Ozias  laughed  again.  He  was  a  stout,  squat 
man,  leaning  forward  upon  his  knees  as  he  sat,  with 
a  complete  subsidence  of  all  his  muscles,  which  showed 
that  it  was  his  accustomed  attitude.  Just  in  that  way 
had  Ozias  Lamb  sat  and  cobbled  shoes  on  his  lapboard 
for  nearly  forty  years.  He  was  almost  resolved  into 
a  statue  illustrative  of  his  own  toil.  He  never  stood 
if  he  could  help  it ;  indeed,  his  knees  felt  weak  un 
der  him  if  he  tried  to  do  so.  He  sank  into  the  first 
seat  and  settled  heavily  forward  into  his  one  pose  of 
life. 

All  the  other  men  looked  rather  apprehensively 
at  him.  His  face  was  all  broadened  with  sardonic 
laughter,  but  his  blue  eyes  were  fierce  under  his  great 
bushy  head  of  fair  hair.  "Abel  Edwards  has  been 
lugging  of  that  mortgage  ''round  for  the  last  ten 
years,"  said  he,  "an7  it's  been  about  all  he  had  to 
lug.  It's  been  the  meat  in  his  stomach  an'  the  hope 
in  his  heart.  He  'ain't  been  a-lookin'  forward  to 
eatin',  but  to  payin'  up  the  interest  money  when  it 


39 


came  due;  he  'ain't  been  a-lookin'  forward  to  heaven, 
but  to  clearin'  off  the  mortgage.  It's  been  all  he's 
had  ;  it's  bore  down  on  his  body  and  his  soul,  an' 
it's  braced  him  up  to  keep  on  workin'.  He's  been 
a-livin'  in  this  Christian  town  for  ten  years  a-carryin' 
of  this  fine  mortgage  right  out  in  plain  sight,  an'  I 
shouldn't  be  a  mite  surprised  if  somebody  see  it  an' 
hankered  arter  it.  Folks  are  so  darned  anxious  in 
this  'ere  Christian  town  to  get  holt  of  each  other's 
burdens !" 

Simon  Basset  edged  his  chair  away  still  farther ; 
then  he  spoke.  "  Don't  s'pose  you  expected  folks 
to  up  an'  pay  Abel  Edwards's  mortgage  for  him/'  he 
said. 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  returned  Ozias  Lamb,  and  the  sar 
donic  curves  around  his  mouth  deepened. 

"  An'  I  don't  s'pose  you'd  expect  Doctor  Prescott 
to  make  him  a  present  of  it,"  said  Jake  Noyes,  sud 
denly,  from  the  outskirts  of  the  group.  He  had 
come  in  for  the  doctor's  mail,  and  was  lounging  with 
one  great  red -sealed  missive  and  a  religious  news 
paper  in  his  hand. 

"No,"  said  Ozias  Lamb,  "  I  shouldn't  never  expect 
the  doctor  to  make  a  present  to  anybody  but  himself 
or  the  Lord  or  the  meetin'-house." 

A  general  chuckle  ran  over  the  group  at  that. 
Doctor  Prescott  was  regarded  in  the  village  as  rather 
parsimonious  except  in  those  three  directions. 

Jake  Noyes  colored  angrily  and  stepped  forward. 
"  I  ain't  goin'  to  hear  no  nonsense  about  Doctor  Pres 
cott,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  won't  stan'  it  from  none  of 
ye.  I  give  ye  fair  warnin'.  I  don't  eat  no  man's 
flapjacks  an'  hear  him  talked  agin  within  swing  of 
my  fists  if  I  can  help  it." 


40 


The  storekeeper  and  postmaster,  Cyrus  Robinson, 
had  been  leaning  over  his  counter  between  the  scales 
and  a  pile  of  yellow  soap  bars,  smiling  and  shrewdly 
observant.  Now  he  spoke,  and  the  savor  of  honey 
for  all  was  in  his  words. 

"  It's  fust-rate  of  you,  Jake,  to  stand  up  for  the 
doctor,"  said  he.  "  We  all  of  us  feel  all  wrought 
up  about  poor  Abel.  I  understand  the  doctor's  goin' 
to  be  easy  with  the  widder  about  the  mortgage.  I 
thought  likely  he  would  be.  Sometimes  folks  do 
considerable  more  good  than  they  get  credit  for.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Doctor  Prescott's  left  hand 
an'  his  neighbors  didn't  know  all  he  did." 

Ozias  Lamb  turned  slowly  around  and  looked  at 
the  storekeeper.  "  Doctor  Prescott's  a  pretty  good 
customer  of  yours,  ain't  he  ?"  he  inquired. 

There  was  a  subdued  titter.  Cyrus  Eobinson  col 
ored,  but  kept  his  pleasant  smile.  "  Everybody  in 
town  is  a  good  customer,"  said  he.  "I  haven't  anv 
bad  customers." 

"  PYaps  'cause  you  won't  trust  'em,"  said  Ozias 
Lamb.  This  time  the  titter  was  audible.  Cyrus 
Robinson's  business  caution  was  well  known. 

The  storekeeper  said  no  more,  turned  abruptly, 
took  a  key  from  his  pocket,  went  to  the  little  post- 
office  in  the  corner,  and  locked  the  door.  Then  he 
began  putting  up  the  window-shutters. 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  company,  a  scraping 
of  chairs  and  stools,  and  a  shuffling  of  heavy  feet, 
and  they  went  lingeringly  out  of  the  store.  '  Cyrus 
Robinson  usually  put  up  his  shutters  too  early  for 
them.  His  store  was  more  than  a  store — it  was  the 
nursery  of  the  town,  the  place  where  her  little  com 
monweal  was  evolved  and  nurtured,  and  it  was  also 


41 


her  judgment-seat.  There  her  simple  citizens  formed 
their  simple  opinions  upon  town  government  and 
town  officials,  upon  which  they  afterwards  acted  in 
town  meeting.  There  they  sat  in  judgment  upon 
all  men  who  were  not  within  reach  of  their  voices, 
and  upon  all  crying  evils  of  the  times  which  were 
too  mighty  for  them  to  struggle  against.  This  great 
country  store  of  Cyrus  Robinson's  —  with  its  rank 
odors  of  molasses  and  spices,  whale  oil,  and  West 
India  rum ;  with  its  counters,  its  floor,  its  very  ceil 
ing  heaped  and  hung  with  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
a  New  England  village $  its  clothes,  its  food,  and  its 
working-utensils — was  also  in  a  sense  the  nucleus  of 
this  village  of  TJpharn  Corners.  There  was  no  tav 
ern.  Although  this  was  the  largest  of  the  little 
cluster  of  Uphams,  the  tavern  was  in  the  West  Cor 
ners,  and  the  stages  met  there.  However,  all  the 
industries  had  centred  in  Upham  Corners  on  ac 
count  of  its  superior  water  privileges :  the  grist-mill 
was  there,  and  the  saw-mill.  People  from  the  West 
and  East  Corners  came  to  trade  at  Robinson's  store, 
which  was  also  a  factory  in  a  limited  sense.  Cyrus 
Robinson  purchased  leather  in  considerable  quantities, 
and  employed  several  workmen  in  a  great  room  above 
the  store  to  cut  out  the  rude  shoes  worn  in  the 
country-side.  These  he  let  out  in  lots  to  the  towns 
folk  to  bind  and  close  and  finish,  paying  them  for 
their  work  in  store  goods,  seldom  in  cash,  then  sell 
ing  the  shoes  himself  at  a  finely  calculated  profit. 

Robinson  had,  moreover,  several  spare  rooms  in 
his  house  adjoining  the  store,  and  there,  if  he  were 
so  disposed,  he  could  entertain  strangers  who  wished 
to  remain  in  Upham  overnight,  and  neither  he  nor 
his  wife  was  averse  to  increasing  their  income  in 


that  way.  Cyrus  Robinson  was  believed  by  many  to 
be  as  rich  as  Doctor  Prescott  and  Simon  Basset. 

When  the  men  left  the  store  that  night,  Simon 
Basset's,  Jake  Noyes's,  and  Adoniram  Judd's  way 
lay  in  the  same  direction.  They  still  discussed  poor 
Abel  Edwards's  disappearance  as  they  went  along. 
Their  voices  were  rising  high,  when  suddenly  Jake 
Noyes  gave  Simon  Basset  a  sharp  nudge.  "Shut 
up," he  whispered  ;  "the  Edwards  boy's  behind  us." 

And  indeed,  as  he  spoke,  Jerome's  little  light  fig 
ure  came  running  past  them.  He  was  evidently 
anxious  to  get  by  without  notice,  but  Simon  Basset 
grasped  his  arm  and  brought  him  to  a  standstill. 

"  Hullo  !"  said  he.  "  You're  Abel  Edwards's  boy, 
ain't  you  ?" 

"  I  can't  stop,"  said  Jerome,  pulling  away.  "  I've 
got  to  go  home.  Mother's  waiting  for  me." 

"I  don't  s'pose  you've  heard  anything  yet  from 
your  father  ?" 

"  No,  I  'ain't.     I've  got  to  go  home." 

"  Where've  you  been,  Jerome  ?"  asked  Adoniram 
Judd. 

"Up  to  Uncle  Ozias's  to  get  Elmira's  shoes."  Je 
rome  had  the  stout  little  shoes,  one  in  each  hand. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  you've  formed  any  idee  of  what's 
become  of  your  father,"  said  Simon  Basset. 

Jerome,  who  had  been  pulling  away  from  his  hold, 
suddenly  stood  still,  and  turned  a  stern  little  white 
face  upon  him. 

"  He's  dead,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  of  course  he's  dead.  That  is,  we're  all  afraid 
he  is,  though  we  all  hope  for  the  best ;  but  that  ain't 
the  question,"  said  Simon  Basset.  "  The  question 
is,  how  did  he  die  ?" 


48 


Jerome  looked  up  in  Simon  Basset's  face.  "He 
died  the  same  way  you  will,  some  time,"  said  he. 
And  with  that  Simon  Basset  let  go  his  arm  sud 
denly,  and  he  was  gone. 

"  Lord  I"  said  Jake  Noyes,  under  his  breath.  Simon 
Basset  said  not  another  word;  his  grandfather,  his 
uncle,  and  a  brother  had  all  taken  their  own  lives, 
and  he  knew  that  the  others  were  thinking  of  it. 
They  all  wondered  if  the  boy  had  been  keen-witted 
enough  to  give  this  hard  hit  at  Simon  intentionally, 
but  he  had  not.  Poor  little  Jerome  had  never  spec 
ulated  on  the  laws  of  heredity ;  he  had  only  meant  to 
deny  that  his  father  had  come  to  any  more  disgrace 
ful  end  than  the  common  one  of  all  mankind.  He 
did  not  dream,  as  he  raced  along  home  with  his  sister's 
shoes,  of  the  different  construction  which  they  had 
put  upon  his  words,  but  he  felt  angry  and  injured. 

"  That  Sim'  Basset  pickin'  on  me  that  way/'  he 
thought.  A  wild  sense  of  the  helplessness  of  his 
youth  came  over  him.  "  Wish  I  was  a  man/'  he 
muttered — "wish  I  was  a  man;  I'd  show  'em  !  All 
them  men  talkin' — sayin'  anything — 'cause  I'm  a 
boy." 

Just  before  he  reached  home  Jerome  met  two  more 
men,  and  he  heard  his  fathers  name  distinctly.  One 
of  them  stretched  out  a  detaining  hand  as  he  passed, 
and  called  out,  "Hullo  !  you're  the  Edwards  boy  ?" 

"  Let  me  go,  I  tell  you,"  shouted  Jerome,  in  a  fury, 
and  was  past  them  with  a  wild  nourish  of  heels,  like 
a  rebellious  colt. 

"What  in  creation  ails  the  boy?"  said  the  man, 
with  a  start  aside  ;  and  he  and  the  other  stood  star 
ing  after  Jerome. 

When  Jerome  got  home  and  opened  the  kitchen 


44 


door  he  stood  still  with  surprise.  It  was  almost  ten 
o'clock,  and  his  mother  and  Elmira  had  begun  to 
make  pies.  His  mother  had  pushed  herself  up  to 
the  table  and  was  mixing  the  pastry,  while  Elmira 
was  beating  eggs. 

Mrs.  Edwards  looked  around  at  Jerome.  "  What 
you  standin'  there  lookin'  for  ?"  said  she,  with  her 
sharp,  nervous  voice.  "Put  them  shoes  down,  an' 
bring  that  quart  pail  of  milk  out  of  the  pantry.  Be 
careful  you  don't  spill  it." 

Jerome  obeyed.  When  he  set  the  milk-pail  on  the 
table,  Elmira  gave  him  a  quick,  piteously  confidential 
glance  from  under  her  tearful  lids.  Elmira,  with  her 
blue  checked  pinafore  tied  under  her  chin,  sat  in  a 
high  wooden  chair,  with  her  little  bare  feet  curling 
over  a  round,  and  beat  eggs  with  a  wooden  spoon  in 
a  great  bowl. 

"What  you  doin'?"  asked  Jerome. 

Her  mother  answered  for  her.  "  She's  mixin'  up 
some  custard  for  pies,"  said  she.  "  I  dun'no'  as 
there's  any  need  of  you  standin'  lookin'  as  if  you 
never  saw  any  before." 

"Never  saw  you  makin'  custard-pies  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night  before,"  returned  Jerome,  with  blunt  de 
fiance. 

"Do  you  s'pose,"  said  his  mother,  "that  I'm  goin'' 
to  let  your  father  go  off  an'  die  all  alone  an'  take  no 
notice  of  it  ?" 

"  Dun'no'  what  you  mean  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  it's  three  days  since  he  went  off 
to  get  that  wood  an'  never  come  back  ?" 

Jerome  nodded. 

"  Do  you  s'pose  I'm  goin'  to  let  it  pass  an'  die  away. 
an'  folks  forget  him,  an'  not  have  any  funeral  or  any- 


45 


thing  ?  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  wait  until  nine 
o'clock  to-night,  an'  then,  if  he  waVt  found,  I 
wouldn't  wait  any  longer.  Fd  get  ready  for  the  fu 
neral.  I've  sent  over  for  Paulina  Maria  and  your 
aunt  B'lindy  to  come  in  an'  help.  Henry  come  over 
here  to  see  if  I'd  heard  anything,  and  I  told  him  to 
go  right  home  an'  tell  his  mother  to  come,  an'  stop 
on  the  way  an'  tell  Paulina  Maria.  There's  a  good 
deal  to  do  before  two  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon, 
an'  I  can't  do  much  myself  ;  somebody's  got  to  help. 
In  the  mornin'  you'll  have  to  take  the  horse  an'  go 
over  to  the  West  Corners,  an'  tell  Amelia  an'  her 
mother  an'  Lyddy  Stokes's  folks.  There  won't  be 
any  time  to  send  word  to  the  Greens  over  in  West- 
brook.  They're  only  second-cousins  anyway,  an'  they 
'ain't  got  any  horse,  an'  I  dun'no'  as  they'd  think 
they  could  afford  to  hire  one.  Now  you  take  that 
fork  an'  go  an'  lift  the  cover  off  that  kettle,  an'  stick 
it  into  the  dried  apples,  an'  see  if  they've  begun  to 
get  soft." 

Ann  Edwards's  little  triangular  face  had  grown 
plainly  thinner  and  older  in  three  days,  but  the  fire 
in  her  black  eyes  still  sparkled.  Her  voice  was 
strained  and  hoarse  on  the  high  notes,  from  much 
lamentation,  but  she  still  raised  it  imperiously.  She 
held  the  wooden  mixing-bowl  in  her  lap,  and  stirred 
with  as  desperate  resolution,  compressing  her  lips 
painfully,  as  if  she  were  stirring  the  dregs  of  her  own 
cup  of  sorrow. 

Pretty  soon  there  were  voices  outside  and  steps  on 
the  path.  The  door  opened,  and  two  women  came 
in.  One  was  Paulina  Maria,  Adoniram  Judd's  wife ; 
the  other  was  Belinda,  the  wife  of  Ozias  Lamb. 

Belinda  Lamb  spoke  first.     She  was  a  middle-aged 


46 


woman,  with  a  pretty  faded  face.  She  wore  her  light 
hair  in  curls,  which  fell  over  her  delicate,  thin  cheeks, 
and  her  blue  eyes  had  no  more  experience  in  them 
than  a  child's,  although  they  were  reddened  now  with 
gentle  tears.  She  had  the  look  of  a  young  girl  who 
had  been  out  like  a  flower  in  too  strong  a  light,  and 
faded  out  her  pretty  tints,  but  was  a  young  girl  still. 
Belinda  always  smiled  an  innocent  girlish  simper, 
which  sometimes  so  irritated  the  austere  New  Eng 
land  village  women  that  they  scowled  involuntarily 
back  at  her.  Paulina  Maria  Judd  and  Ann  Edwards 
both  scowled  without  knowing  it  now  as  she  spoke, 
her  words  never  seeming  to  disturb  that  mildly  in 
gratiating  upward  curve  of  her  lips. 

"  I've  come  right  over/'  said  she,  in  a  soft  voice  ; 
"  but  it  ain't  true  what  Henry  said,  is  it  ?" 

"What  ain't  true  ?"  asked  Ann,  grimly. 

"  It  ain't  true  you're  goin'  to  have  a  funeral  ?" 
Tears  welled  up  afresh  in  Belinda's  blue  eyes,  and 
flowed  slowly  down  her  delicate  cheeks,  but  not  a 
muscle  of  her  face  changed,  and  she  smiled  still. 

"  Why  can't  I  have  a  funeral  ?" 

"  Why,  Ann,  how  can  you  have  a  funeral,  when 
there  ain't — when  they  'ain't  found  him  ?" 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why  I  can't !" 

Belinda's  blue,  weeping  eyes  surveyed  her  with  the 
helpless  bewilderment  of  a  baby.  "Why,  Ann,"  she 
gasped,  "there  won't  be  any — remains  !" 

"  What  of  that  ?     I  guess  I  know  it." 

"  There  won't  be  no  thin'  for  anybody  to  go  round 
an'  look  at ;  there  won't  be  any  coffin — Ann,  you  ain't 
goin'  to  have  any  coffin  when  he  ain't  found,  be  you  ?" 

"  Be  you  a  fool,  Belindy  Lamb  ?"  said  Ann.  A 
hard  sniff  came  from  Paulina  Maria. 


47 


"Well,  I  didn't  s'pose  you  was,"  said  Belinda, 
with  meek  abashedness.  "Of  course  I  knew  you 
wasn't  —  I  only  asked;  but  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  have  a  funeral  no  way,  Ann.  There  won't 
be  any  coffin,  nor  any  hearse,  nor  any  procession, 
nor—" 

"  There'll  be  mourners,"  broke  in  Ann. 

"  They're  what  makes  a  funeral,"  said  Paulina  Ma 
ria,  putting  on  an  apron  she  had  brought.  "  Folks 
that's  had  funerals  knows." 

She  cast  an  austere  glance  at  Belinda  Lamb,  who 
colored  to  the  roots  of  her  fair  curls,  and  was  con 
scious  of  a  guilty  lack  of  funeral  experience,  while 
Paulina  Maria  had  lost  seven  children,  who  all  died 
in  infancy.  Poor  Belinda  seemed  to  see  the  other 
woman's  sternly  melancholy  face  in  a  halo  of  little 
coffins  and  funeral  wreaths. 

"  I  know  you've  had  a  good  deal  more  to  contend 
with  than  I  have,"  she  faltered.  "I  'ain't  never  lost 
anybody  till  poor  —  Abel."  She  broke  into  gentle 
weeping,  but  Paulina  Maria  thrust  a  broom  relent 
lessly  into  her  hand. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  "take  this  broom  an'  sweep,  an' 
it  might  as  well  be  done  to-night  as  any  time.  Of 
course  you  'ain't  got  your  spring  cleanin'  done,  none 
of  it,  Ann  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Edwards  ;  "  I  was  goin'  to 
begin  next  week." 

"  Well,"  said  Paulina  Maria,  "  if  this  house  has 
got  to  be  all  cleaned,  an'  cookin'  done,  in  time  for  the 
funeral,  somebody's  got  to  work.  I  s'pose  you  expect 
some  out-of-town  folks,  Ann  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  some  '11  come  from  the  West  Corners. 
I  thought  I  wouldn't  try  to  get  word  to  Westbrook, 


it's  so  far;  but  mebbe  I'd  send  to  Granby — there's 
some  there  that  might  come." 

"  Well,"  said  Paulina  Maria,  "  I  shouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  as  many  as  a  dozen  came,  an'  supper  '11  have 
to  be  got  for  'em.  What  are  you  goin'  to  do  about 
black,  Ann  ?" 

"  I  thought  mebbe  I  oould  borrow  a  black  bonnet 
an'  a  veil.  I  guess  my  black  bombazine  dress  will 
do  to  wear." 

1 '  Mis'  Whitby  had  a  new  one  when  her  mother 
died,  an'  didn't  use  her  mother's  old  one.  I  don't 
believe  but  what  you  can  borrow  that,"  said  Paulina 
Maria.  She  was  moving  about  the  kitchen,  doing 
this  and  that,  waiting  for  no  commands  or  requests. 
Jerome  and  Elmira  kept  well  back  out  of  her  way, 
although  she  had  not  half  the  fierce  impetus  that 
their  mother  sometimes  had  when  hitching  about 
in  her  chair.  Paulina  Maria,  in  her  limited  field 
of  action,  had  the  quick  and  unswerving  decision  of 
a  general,  and  people  marshalled  themselves  at  her 
nod,  whether  they  would  or  no.  She  was  an  exam 
ple  of  the  insistence  of  a  type.  The  prevailing  traits 
of  the  village  women  were  all  intensified  and  fairly 
dominant  in  her.  They  kept  their  houses  clean,  but 
she  kept  hers  like  a  temple  for  the  footsteps  of  di 
vinity.  Marvellous  tales  were  told  of  Paulina  Maria's 
exceeding  neatness.  It  was  known  for  a  fact  that 
the  boards  of  her  floors  were  so  arranged  that  they 
could  be  lifted  from  their  places  and  cleaned  on 
their  under  as  well  as  upper  sides.  Could  Paulina 
Maria  have  cleaned  the  inner  as  well  as  the  outer 
surface  of  her  own  skin  she  would  doubtless  have 
been  better  satisfied.  As  it  was,  the  colorless  text 
ure  of  her  thin  face  and  hands,  through  which  the 


49 


working  of  her  delicate  jaws  and  muscles  could  be 
plainly  seen,  gave  an  impression  of  extreme  purity 
and  cleanliness.  "  Paulina  Maria  looks  as  ef  she'd 
been  put  to  soak  in  rain-water  overnight/' Simon 
Basset  said  once,  after  she  had  gone  out  of  the 
store.  Everybody  called  her  Paulina  Maria — never 
Mrs.  Judd,  nor  Mrs.  Adoniram  Judd. 

The  village  women  were,  as  a  rule,  full  of  piety. 
Paulina  Maria  was  austere.  She  had  the  spirit  to 
have  scourged  herself  had  she  once  convicted  her 
self  of  wrong  ;  but  that  she  had  never  done.  The 
power  of  self-blame  was  not  in  her.  Paulina  Maria 
had  never  labored  under  conviction  of  sin ;  she 
had  had  no  orthodox  conversion  ;  but  she  set  her 
slim  unswerving  feet  in  the  paths  of  righteousness, 
and  walked  there  with  her  head  up.  In  her  the  un 
compromising  spirit  of  Puritanism  was  so  strong 
that  it  defeated  its  own  ends.  The  other  women 
were  at  times  inflexible ;  Paulina  Maria  was  always 
rigid.  The  others  could  be  severe ;  Paulina  Maria 
might  have  conducted  an  inquisition.  She  had  in 
her  possibilities  of  almost  mechanical  relentlessness 
which  had  never  been  tested  in  her  simple  village 
life.  Paulina  Maria  never  shirked  her  duty,  but  it 
could  not  be  said  that  she  performed  it  in  any  gen 
tle  and  Christ -like  sense.  She  rather  attacked  it 
and  slew  it,  as  if  it  were  a  dragon  in  her  path.  That 
night  she  was  very  weary.  She  had  toiled  hard  all 
day  at  her  own  vigorous  cleaning.  Her  bones  and 
muscles  ached.  The  spring  languor  also  was  upon 
her.  She  was  not  a  strong  woman,  but  she  never 
dreamed  of  refusing  to  go  to  Ann  Edwards's  and 
assist  her  in  her  sad  preparations. 

She  and  Belinda  Lamb  remained  and  worked  until 


50 


midnight ;  then  they  went  home.  Jerome  had  to 
escort  them  through  the  silent  village  street — he 
had  remained  up  for  that  purpose.  Elmira  had  been 
sent  to  bed.  When  the  boy  came  home  alone  along 
the  familiar  road,  between  the  houses  with  their 
windows  gleaming  with  blank  darkness  in  his  eyes, 
with  no  sound  in  his  ears  save  the  hoarse  bark 
of  a  dog  when  his  footsteps  echoed  past,  a  great 
strangeness  of  himself  in  his  own  thoughts  was  upon 
him. 

He  had  not  the  feminine  ability  to  ease  descent 
into  the  depths  of  sorrow  by  catching  at  all  its  minor 
details  on  the  way.  He  plunged  straight  down  ;  no 
questions  of  funeral  preparations  or  mourning  bon 
nets  arrested  him  for  a  second.  "  My  father  is 
dead/' Jerome  told  himself;  "he  jumped  into  the 
pond  and  drowned  himself,  and  here's  mother,  and 
Elmira,  and  the  mortgage,  and  me. " 

This  poor  little  me  of  the  village  boy  seemed  sud 
denly  to  have  grown  in  stature,  to  have  bent,  as  it 
grew,  under  a  grievous  burden,  and  to  have  lost  all  its 
childish  carelessness  and  childish  ambition.  Jerome 
saw  himself  in  the  likeness  of  his  father,  bearing  the 
mortgage  upon  his  shoulders,  and  his  boyish  self 
never  came  fully  back  to  him  afterwards.  The 
mantle  of  the  departed,  that,  whether  they  will  or 
not,  covers  those  that  stand  nearest,  was  over  him, 
and  he  had  henceforth  to  walk  under  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  next  morning  Paulina  Maria  and  Belinda 
Lamb  returned  to  finish  preparations,  and  Jerome 
was  sent  over  to  the  West  Corners  to  notify  some 
relatives  there  of  the  funeral  service.  Just  as  he 
was  starting,  it  was  decided  that  he  had  better  ride 
some  six  miles  farther  to  Granby,  and  see  some  oth 
ers  who  might  think  they  had  a  claim  to  an  invita 
tion. 

"  Imogen  Lawson  an7  Sarah  were  always  dreadful 
touchy,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards.  "  They'll  never  get 
over  it  if  they  ain't  asked.  I  guess  you'd  better  go 
there,  Jerome." 

"Yes,  he  had,"  said  Paulina  Maria. 

"It's  a  real  pleasant  day,  an'  I  guess  they'll  enjoy 
comin',"  said  Belinda.  Paulina  Maria  gave  her  a 
poke  with  a  hard  elbow,  that  hurt  her  soft  side,  and 
she  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"Enjoy  !"  repeated  Ann  Edwards,  bitterly. 

' '  I  dun'no'  what  you  mean,"  half  whimpered  Be 
linda. 

"  No,  I  don't  s'pose  you  do,"  returned  Ann. 
"  There's  one  thing  about  it — folks  can  always  tell 
what  you  mean.  You  don't  mean  nothin',  an'  never 
did.  You  couldn't  be  put  in  a  dictionary.  Noah 
Webster  couldn't  find  any  meariin'  fer  you  if  he  was 
to  set  up  all  night."  A  nervous  sob  shook  Mrs.  Ed- 
wards's  little  frame.  She  was  almost  hysterical  that 


morning.  Her  black  eyes  were  brightly  dilated,  her 
mouth  tremulous,  and  her  throat  swollen. 

Paulina  Maria  grasped  Belinda  by  the  shoulder. 
"  You'd  better  get  the  broom  an'  sweep  out  the 
wood-shed,"  said  she,  and  Belinda  went  out  with  a 
limp  flutter  of  her  cotton  skirts  and  her  curls. 

Jerome  rode  the  old  white  horse,  that  could  only 
travel  at  a  heavy  jog,  and  he  did  not  get  home  until 
noon — not  much  in  advance  of  the  funeral  guests  he 
had  bidden.  They  had  directly  left  all  else,  got  out 
what  mourning-weeds  they  could  muster,  and  made 
ready. 

When  Jerome  reached  home,  he  was  immediately 
seized  by  Paulina  Maria.  "  Go  right  out  and  wash 
your  face  and  hands  real  clean,"  said  she,  "and  then 
go  up-stairs  and  change  your  clothes.  I've  laid  them 
out  on  the  bed.  When  you  get  to  the  neckerchief, 
you  come  down  here,  and  I'll  tie  it  for  you ;  it's  your 
father's.  You've  got  to  wear  somethin'  black,  to  be 
decent." 

Jerome  obeyed.  All  the  incipient  masculine  au 
thority  in  him  was  overwhelmed  by  this  excess  of 
feminine  strength.  He  washed  his  face  and  hands 
faithfully,  and  donned  his  little  clean,  coarse  shirt 
and  his  poor  best  garments.  Then  he  came  down 
with  the  black  silk  neckerchief,  and  Paulina  Maria 
tied  it  around  his  boyish  neck. 

"His  father  thought  so  much  of  that  neckerchief/' 
said  Mrs.  Edwards,  catching  her  breath.  "  It  was 
'most  the  only  thing  he  bought  for  himself  for  ten 
year  that  he  didn't  actually  need." 

"Jerome  is  the  one  to  have  it,"  said  Paulina  Maria, 
and  she  made  the  black  silk  knot  tight  and  firm. 

An  hour  before  the  time  set  for  the  funeral  Ann 


53 


Edwards  was  all  dressed  and  ready.  They  had  drawn 
her  chair  into  the  front  parlor,  and  there  she  sat  in 
state.  She  wore  the  borrowed  black  bonnet  and  veil. 
The  decent  black  shawl  and  gown  were  her  own.  The 
doctor's  wife  had  sent  over  some  black  silk  gloves,  and 
she  wore  them.  They  were  much  too  large.  Ann 
crossed  her  tiny  hands,  wrinkled  over  with  the  black 
silk,  with  long,  empty  black  silk  fingers  dangling  in 
her  lap,  over  a  fine  white  linen  handkerchief.  She 
had  laid  her  gloved  hands  over  the  handkerchief  with 
a  gesture  full  of  resolution.  "  I  sha'n't  give  way," 
she  said  to  Paulina  Maria.  That  meant  that,  al 
though  she  took  the  handkerchief  in  obedience  to 
custom,  it  would  not  be  used  to  dry  the  tears  of  af 
fliction. 

Ann's  face,  through  the  black  gloom  of  her  crape 
veil,  revealed  only  the  hard  lines  of  resolution  about 
her  mouth  and  the  red  stain  of  tears  about  her  eyes. 
She  held  now  her  emotions  in  check  like  a  vise. 

Jerome  and  poor  little  Elmira,  whom  Paulina  Maria 
had  dressed  in  a  little  black  Canton-crape  shawl  of 
her  own,  sat  011  either  side.  Elmira  wept  now  and 
then,  trying  to  stifle  her  sobs,  but  Jerome  sat  as  im 
movable  as  his  mother. 

The  funeral  guests  arrived,  and  seated  themselves 
solemnly  in  the  rows  of  chairs  which  had  been  bor 
rowed  from  the  neighbors.  Adoniram  Judd  and  Ozias 
Lamb  had  carried  chairs  for  a  good  part  of  the  fore 
noon.  Nearly  all  the  village  people  came;  the  strange 
circumstances  of  this  funeral,  wherein  there  was  no 
dead  man  to  carry  solemnly  in  the  midst  of  a  long 
black  procession  to  his  grave,  had  attracted  many. 
Then,  too,  Abel  Edwards  had  been  known  to  them 
all  since  his  childhood,  and  well  liked  in  the  main, 


54 


although  the  hard  grind  of  his  daily  life  had  of  late 
years  isolated  him  from  his  old  mates. 

Men  sat  there  with  stiff  bowed  heads,  and  glances 
of  solemn  f urtiveness  at  new-comers,  who  had  played 
with  Abel  in  his  boyhood,  and  to  whom  those  old 
memories  were  more  real  than  those  of  the  last  ten 
years.  Abel  Edwards,  in  the  absence  both  of  his 
living  soul  and  his  dead  body,  was  present  in  the 
minds  of  many  as  a  sturdy,  light-hearted  boy. 

The  people  of  Upham  Corners  assembled  there 
together,  dressed  in  their  best,  displaying  their  most 
staid  and  decorous  demeanor,  showed  their  fortunes 
in  life  plainly  enough.  Generally  speaking,  they  were 
a  poor  and  hard-working  folk  —  poorer  and  harder 
working  than  the  average  people  in  villages.  Upham 
Corners,  from  its  hilly  site,  freely  intersected  with 
rock  ledges,  was  not  well  calculated  for  profitable 
farming.  The  farms  therein  were  mortgaged,  and 
scarcely  fed  their  tillers.  The  water  privileges  were 
good  and  mills  might  have  flourished,  but  the  great 
er  markets  were  too  far  away,  and  few  workmen  could 
be  employed. 

Most  of  the  women  at  poor  Abel  Edwards's  funeral 
were  worn  and  old  before  their  prime,  their  mouths 
sunken,  wearing  old  women's  caps  over  their  locks  at 
thirty.  Their  decent  best  gowns  showed  that  pite 
ous  conservation  of  poverty  more  painful  almost  than 
squalor. 

The  men  were  bent  and  gray  with  the  unseen,  but 
no  less  tangible,  burdens  of  life.  Scarcely  one  there 
but  bore,  as  poor  Abel  Edwards  had  borne,  a  mort 
gage  among  them.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that 
although  all  of  the  customary  mournful  accessories 
of  a  funeral  were  wanting,  although  no  black  coffin 


55 


with  its  silent  occupant  stood  in  their  midst,  and 
no  hearse  waited  at  the  door,  yet  that  mortgage 
of  Abel  Edwards's —  that  burden,  like  poor  Chris 
tian's,  although  not  of  sin,  but  misfortune,  which 
had  doubled  him  to  the  dust — seemed  still  to  be 
present. 

The  people  had  the  thought  of  it  ever  in  their 
minds.  They  looked  at  Ann  Edwards  and  her  chil 
dren,  and  seemed  to  see  in  truth  the  mortgage  bear 
ing  down  upon  them,  like  a  very  shadow  of  death. 

They  looked  across  at  Doctor  Seth  Prescott  fur 
tively,  as  if  he  might  perchance  read  their  thoughts, 
and  wondered  if  he  would  foreclose. 

Doctor  Prescott,  in  his  broadcloth  surtout,  with 
his  black  satin  stock  muffling  richly  his  stately  neck, 
sat  in  the  room  with  the  mourners,  directly  opposite 
the  Edwards  family.  His  wife  was  beside  him.  She 
was  a  handsome  woman,  taller  and  larger  than  her 
husband,  with  a  face  of  gentlest  serenity  set  in  shin 
ing  bands  of  auburn  hair.  Mrs.  Doctor  Prescott 
looked  like  an  empress  among  the  other  women, 
with  her  purple  velvet  pelisse  sweeping  around  her 
in  massive  folds,  and  her  purple  velvet  bonnet  with 
a  long  ostrich  plume  curling  over  the  side  —  the 
purple  being  considered  a  sort  of  complimentary 
half -mourning.  Squire  Eben  Merritt's  wife,  Abigail, 
could  not  approach  her,  although  she  was  finely 
dressed  in  black  satin,  and  a  grand  cashmere  shawl 
from  overseas.  Mrs.  Eben  Merritt  was  a  small  and 
plain- visaged  little  woman  ;  people  had  always  won 
dered  why  Squire  Eben  Merritt  had  married  her. 
Eben  Merritt  had  not  come  to  the  funeral.  It  was 
afterwards  reported  that  he  had  gone  fishing  in 
stead,  and  people  were  scandalized,  and  indignantly 


56 

triumphant,  because  it  was  what  they  had  expected 
of  him.  Little  Lucina  had  come  with  her  mother, 
and  sat  in  the  high  chair  where  they  had  placed  her, 
with  her  little  morocco-shod  feet  dangling,  her  little 
hands  crossed  in  her  lap,  and  her  blue  eyes  looking 
out  soberly  and  anxiously  from  her  best  silk  hood. 
Once  in  a  while  she  glanced  timidly  at  Jerome,  and 
reflected  how  he  had  given  her  sassafras,  and  how  he 
hadn't  any  father. 

When  the  singing  began,  the  tears  came  into  her 
eyes  and  her  lip  quivered ;  but  she  tried  not  to  cry, 
although  there  were  smothered  sobs  all  around  her. 
There  was  that  about  the  sweet,  melancholy  drone 
of  the  funeral  hymn  which  stirred  something  more 
than  sympathy  in  the  hearts  of  the  listeners.  Imag 
ination  of  like  bereavements  for  themselves  awoke 
within  them,  and  they  wept  for  their  own  sorrows  in 
advance. 

The  minister  offered  a  prayer,  in  which  he  made 
mention  of  all  the  members  of  poor  Abel's  family, 
and  even  distant  relatives.  In  fact,  Paulina  Maria 
had  furnished  him  with  a  list,  which  he  had  studied 
furtively  during  the  singing.  "  Don't  forget  any  of 
'em,  or  they  won't  like  it,"  she  had  charged.  So  the 
minister,  Solomon  Wells,  bespoke  the  comfort  and 
support  of  the  Lord  in  this  affliction  for  all  the  sec 
ond  and  third  cousins  upon  his  list,  who  bowed  their 
heads  with  a  sort  of  mournful  importance  as  they 
listened. 

Solomon  Wells  was  an  elderly  man,  tall,  and  bend 
ing  limberly  under  his  age  like  an  old  willow,  his 
spare  long  body  in  nicely  kept  broadcloth  sitting  and 
rising  with  wide  flaps  of  black  coat-tails,  his  eyes 
peering  forth  mildly  through  spectacles.  He  was 


57 


a  widower  of  long  standing.  His  daughter  Eliza, 
who  kept  his  house,  sat  beside  him.  She  resembled 
her  father  closely,  and  herself  looked  like  an  old  per 
son  anywhere  but  beside  him.  There  the  juvenility 
of  comparison  was  hers. 

Solomon  Wells,  during  the  singing,  before  he  offer 
ed  prayer,  had  cast  sundry  perplexed  glances  at  a 
group  of  strangers  on  his  right,  and  then  at  his  list. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  they  were  not  mentioned 
thereon.  Once  he  looked  perplexedly  at  Paulina  Ma 
ria,  but  she  was  singing  hard,  in  a  true  strong  voice, 
and  did  not  heed  him.  The  strangers  sat  behind 
her.  There  was  a  large  man,  lumbering  and  uncom 
fortable  in  his  best  clothes,  a  small  woman,  and  three 
little  girls,  all  dressed  in  blue  delaine  gowns  and 
black  silk  mantillas  and  blue  bonnets. 

The  minister  had  a  strong  conviction  that  these 
people  should  be  mentioned  in  his  prayer.  He  gave 
his  daughter  Eliza  a  little  nudge,  and  looked  inquir 
ingly  at  them  and  at  her,  but  she  shook  her  head 
slightly  —  she  did  not  know  who  they  were.  Her 
father  had  to  content  himself  with  vaguely  alluding 
in  his  petition  to  all  other  relatives  of  this  afflicted 
family. 

During  the  eulogy  upon  the  departed,  which  fol 
lowed,  he  made  also  casual  mention  of  the  respect 
in  which  he  was  held  by  strangers  as  well  as  by  his 
own  towns  -  people.  The  minister  gave  poor  Abel 
a  very  good  character.  He  spoke  at  length  of  his 
honesty,  industry,  and  sobriety.  He  touched  lightly 
upon  the  unusual  sadness  of  the  circumstances  of  his 
death.  He  expressed  no  doubt ;  he  gave  no  hints  of 
any  dark  tragedy.  "  Don't  speak  as  if  you  thought 
he  killed  himself ;  if  you  do,  it'll  make  her  about 


58 


crazy,"  Paulina  Maria  had  charged  him.  Ann,  lis 
tening  jealously  to  every  word,  could  take  no  excep 
tion  to  one.  Solomon  Wells  was  very  mindful  of  the 
feelings  of  others.  He  seemed  at  times  to  move  with 
a  sidewise  motion  of  his  very  spirit  to  avoid  hurting 
theirs. 

After  dwelling  upon  Abel  Edwards's  simple  virtues, 
fairly  dinning  them  like  sweet  notes  into  the  mem 
ories  of  his  neighbors,  Solomon  Wells,  with  a  sweep 
of  his  black  coat  -  skirts  around  him,  sat  down. 
Then  there  was  a  solemn  and  somewhat  awkward 
pause.  The  people  looked  at  each  other;  they 
did  not  know  what  to  do  next.  All  the  custom 
ary  routine  of  a  funeral  was  disturbed.  The  next 
step  in  the  regular  order  of  funeral  exercises  was 
to  pass  decorously  around  a  coffin,  pause  a  min 
ute,  bend  over  it  with  a  long  last  look  at  the  white 
face  therein  ;  the  next,  to  move  out  of  the  room  and 
take  places  in  the  funeral  procession.  Now  that  was 
out  of  the  question  ;  they  were  puzzled  as  to  further 
proceedings. 

Doctor  Seth  Prescott  made  the  first  move.  He 
arose,  and  his  wife  after  him,  with  a  soft  rustle  of  her 
silken  skirts.  They  both  went  up  to  Ann  Edwards, 
shook  hands,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  After  them 
Mrs.  Squire  Merritt,  with  Lucina  in  hand,  did  like 
wise  ;  then  everybody  else,  except  the  relatives  and 
the  minister  and  his  daughter. 

After  the  decorous  exit  of  the  others,  the  relatives 
sat  stiffly  around  the  room  and  waited.  They  knew 
there  was  to  be  a  funeral  supper,  for  the  fragrance 
of  sweet  cake  and  tea  was  strong  over  all  the  house. 
There  had  been  some  little  doubt  concerning  it  among 
the  out-of-town  relatives :  some  had  opined  that  there 


59 


would  be  none,  on  account  of  the  other  irregularities 
of  the  exercises ;  some  had  opined  that  the  usual 
supper  would  be  provided.  The  latter  now  sniffed 
and  nodded  triumphantly  at  the  others — particularly 
Amelia  Stokes's  childish  old  mother.  She,  half  hid 
den  in  the  frills  of  a  great  mourning-bonnet  and  the 
folds  of  a  great  black  shawl,  kept  repeating,  in  a  sharp 
little  gabble,  like  a  child's  :  "  I  smell  the  tea,  'Melia 
— I  do,  I  smell  it.  Yes,  I  do — I  told  ye  so.  I  tell  ye, 
I  smell  the  tea." 

Poor  Amelia  Stokes,  who  was  a  pretty,  gentle-faced 
spinster,  could  not  hush  her  mother,  whisper  as  plead 
ingly  as  she  might  into  the  sharp  old  ear  in  the  bon 
net-frills.  The  old  woman  was  full  of  the  desire  for 
tea,  and  could  scarcely  be  restrained  from  following 
up  its  fragrant  scent  at  once. 

The  two  Lawson  sisters  sat  side  by  side,  their  sharp 
faces  under  their  black  bonnets  full  of  veiled  alert 
ness.  Nothing  escaped  them ;  they  even  suspected 
the  truth  about  Ann's  bonnet  and  gloves.  Ann  still 
sat  with  her  gloved  hands  crossed  in  her  lap  and  her 
black  veil  over  her  strained  little  face.  She  did  not 
move  a  muscle  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  all  her  restrained 
grief  the  sight  of  the  large  man,  the  woman,  and  the 
three  girls  in  the  blue  thibets,  the  black  silk  mantil 
las,  and  the  blue  bonnets  filled  her  with  a  practical 
dismay.  They  were  the  relatives  from  Westbrook, 
who  had  not  been  bidden  to  the  funeral.  They  must 
have  gotten  word  in  some  irregular  manner,  and  the 
woman  held  her  blue -bonneted  head  with  a  cant  of 
war,  which  Ann  knew  well  of  old. 

For  a  little  while  there  was  silence,  except  for  Pau 
lina  Maria's  heavy  tramp  and  the  soft  shuffle  of  Belin 
da  Lamb's  cloth  shoes  out  in  the  kitchen.  They  were 


60 


hurrying  to  get  the  supper  in  readiness.  Another 
appetizing  odor  was  now  stealing  over  the  house,  the 
odor  of  baking  cream-of-tartar  biscuits. 

Suddenly,  with  one  accord,  as  if  actuated  by  one 
mental  impulse,  the  little  woman,  the  large  man,  and 
the  three  girls  arose  and  advanced  upon  Ann  Ed 
wards.  She  grasped  the  arm  of  her  chair  hard,  as  if 
bracing  herself  to  meet  a  shock. 

The  little  woman  spoke.  Her  eyes  seemed  full  of 
black  sparks,  her  voice  shook,  red  spots  flamed  out 
in  her  cheeks.  "We'll  bid  you  good-bye  now^  Cousin 
Ann,"  said  she. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  stay  and  have  some  supper  ?" 
asked  Ann.  Her  manner  was  at  once  defiant  and 
conciliatory. 

Then  the  little  woman  made  her  speech.  All  the 
way  from  her  distant  village,  in  the  rear  gloom  of 
the  covered  wagon,  she  had  been  composing  it.  She 
delivered  it  with  an  assumption  of  calm  dignity,  in 
spite  of  her  angry  red  cheeks  and  her  shaking  voice. 
" Cousin  Ann,"  said  the  little  woman,  "me  and  mine 
go  nowhere  where  we  are  not  invited.  We  came  to 
the  funeral — though  you  didn't  see  fit  to  even  tell 
us  when  it  was,  and  we  only  heard  of  it  by  accident 
from  the  butcher — out  of  respect  to  poor  Abel.  He 
was  my  own  second-cousin,  and  our  folks  used  to  visit 
back  and  forth  a  good  deal  before  he  was  married. 
I  felt  as  if  I  must  come  to  his  funeral,  whether  I  was 
wanted  or  not,  because  I  know  if  he'd  been  alive  he'd 
said  to  come  ;  but  staying  to  supper  is  another  thing. 
I  am  sorry  for  you,  Cousin  Ann  ;  we  are  all  sorry  for 
you  in  your  affliction.  We  all  hope  it  may  be  sanc 
tified  to  you  ;  but  I  don't  feel,  and  'Lisha  and  the 
girls  don't  feel,  as  if  we  could  stay  and  eat  victuals 


61 


in  a  house  where  we've  been  shown  very  plainly  we 
ain't  wanted." 

Then  Ann  spoke,  and  her  voice  was  unexpectedly 
loud.  ' '  You  haven't  any  call  to  think  you  wasn't  all 
welcome/'  said  she.  "  You  live  ten  miles  off,  and  I 
hadn't  a  soul  to  send  but  Jerome,  with  a  horse  that 
can't  get  out  of  a  walk.  I  didn't  know  myself  there'd 
be  a  funeral  for  certain  till  yesterday.  There  wasn't 
time  to  send  for  you.  I  thought  of  it,  but  I  knew 
there  wouldn't  be  time  to  get  word  to  you  in  season 
for  you  to  start.  You  might,  as  long  as  you're  a  pro 
fessing  Christian,  Eloise  Green,  have  a  little  mercy  in 
a  time  like  this."  Ann's  voice  quavered  a  little,  but 
she  set  her  mouth  harder. 

The  large  man  nudged  his  wife  and  whispered  some 
thing.  He  drew  the  back  of  his  rough  hand  across 
his  eyes.  The  three  little  blue-clad  girls  stood  toeing 
in,  dangling  their  cotton-gloved  hands. 

"  I  thought  you  might  have  sent  word  by  the  butch 
er,"  said  the  little  woman.  Her  manner  was  softer, 
but  she  wanted  to  cover  her  defeat  well. 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  butchers  and  all  the  where 
withals,"  said  Ann,  with  stern  dignity.  "I  didn't 
think  Abel's  relations  would  lay  it  up  against  me  if 
I  didn't." 

The  large  man's  face  worked  ;  tears  rolled  down  his 
great  cheeks.  He  pulled  out  a  red  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  eyes. 

"  You'd  ought  to  had  a  white  handkerchief,  fa 
ther,"  whispered  the  little  woman  ;  then  she  turned 
to  Ann.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  lay  up  anything," 
said  she. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  any  call  to,"  responded 
Ann.  "  I  haven't  anything  more  to  say.  If  you  feel 


like  staying  to  supper  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you,  but 
I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had  strength  to  urge  anybody/' 

The  large  man  sobbed  audibly  in  his  red  handker 
chief.  His  wife  cast  an  impatient  glance  at  him. 
"  Well,  if  that  is  the  way  it  was,  of  course  we  shall 
all  be  happy  to  stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  she. 
"We've  got  a  long  ride  before  us,  and  I  don't  feel 
quite  as  well  as  common  this  spring.  Of  course  I 
didn't  understand  how  it  happened,  and  I  felt  kind 
of  hurt ;  it  was  only  natural.  I  see  how  it  was,  now. 
'Lisha,  hadn't  you  better  slip  out  and  see  how  the  horse 
is  standing  ?"  The  little  woman  thrust  her  own  white 
handkerchief  into  her  husband's  hand  as  he  started. 
"You  put  that  red  one  under  the  wagon  seat,"  she 
whispered  loud  in  his  ear.  Then  she  and  the  little 
girls  in  blue  returned  to  their  chairs.  The  rest  of 
the  company  had  been  listening  with  furtive  atten 
tion.  Jerome  had  been  trembling  with  indignation 
at  his  mother's  side.  He  looked  at  the  large  man, 
and  wondered  impatiently  why  he  did  not  shake  that 
small  woman,  since  he  was  able.  There  was  as  yet  no 
leniency  on  the  score  of  sex  in  the  boy.  He  would 
have  well  liked  to  fly  at  that  little  wrathful  body  who 
was  attacking  his  mother,  and  also  blaming  him  for 
not  riding  those  ten  miles  to  notify  her  of  the  funeral. 
He  scowled  hard  at  her  and  the  three  little  girls  after 
they  had  returned  to  their  seats.  One  of  the  girls, 
a  pretty  child  with  red  curls,  caught  his  frown,  and 
stared  at  him  with  scared  but  fascinated  blue  eyes. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly.  Belinda  Lamb, 
instigated  by  Paulina  Maria,  stood  in  the  door  and 
said,  with  melancholy  formality,  "Will  you  come 
out  now  and  have  a  little  refreshment  before  you  go 
home  ?" 


63 


Ann  did  not  stir.  The  others  went  out  lingeringly, 
holding  back  for  politeness'  sake ;  she  sat  still  with 
her  black  veil  over  her  face  and  her  black  gloved 
hands  crossed  in  her  lap.  Paulina  Maria  came  to 
her  and  tried  to  induce  her  to  remove  her  bonnet 
and  have  some  tea  with  the  rest,  but  she  shook  her 
head.  "I  want  to  just  sit  here  and  keep  still  till 
they're  gone,"  said  she. 

She  sat  there.  Some  of  the  others  came  and  add 
ed  their  persuasions  to  Paulina  Maria's,  but  she  was 
firm.  Jerome  remained  beside  his  mother  ;  Elmira 
had  been  bidden  to  go  into  the  other  room  and  help 
wait  upon  the  company. 

"  There's  room  for  Jerome  at  the  table,  if  you 
ain't  coming,"  said  Paulina  Maria  to  Ann ;  but  Je 
rome  answered  for  himself. 

"  I'll  wait  till  that  crowd  are  gone,"  said  he,  with 
a  fierce  gesture. 

"  You  wouldn't  speak  that  way  if  you  were  my 
boy,"  said  Paulina  Maria. 

Jerome  muttered  under  his  breath  that  he  wasn't 
her  boy.  Paulina  Maria  cast  a  stern  glance  at  him 
as  she  went  out. 

"  Don't  you  be  saucy,  Jerome  Edwards,"  Ann  said, 
in  a  sharp  whisper  through  her  black  veil.  "She's 
done  a  good  deal  for  us." 

"I'd  like  to  kill  the  whole  lot  !"  said  the  boy, 
clinching  his  little  fist. 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  You're  a  wicked,  ungrate 
ful  boy  !"  said  his  mother ;  but  all  the  time  she  had 
a  curious  sympathy  with  him.  Poor  Ann  was  seized 
with  a  strange  unreasoning  rancor  against  all  that  dec 
orously  feeding  company  in  the  other  room.  There 
are  despairing  moments,  when  the  happy  seem  nat- 


64 


ural  enemies  of  the  miserable,  and  Ann  was  passing 
through  them.  As  she  sat  there  in  her  gloomy 
isolation  of  widowhood,  her  black  veil  and  her  dark 
thoughts  coloring  her  whole  outlook  on  life,  she  felt 
a  sudden  fury  of  blindness  against  all  who  could 
see.  Had  she  been  younger,  she  would  have  given 
vent  to  her  emotion  like  Jerome.  Her  son  seemed 
the  very  expression  of  her  own  soul,  although  she  re 
buked  him. 

The  people  were  a  long  time  at  supper.  The  fu 
neral  cake  was  sweet  to  their  tongues,  and  the  tea 
mildly  exhilarating.  When  they  came  at  last  to  bid 
farewell  to  Ann  there  was  in  their  faces  a  pleas 
ant  unctuousness  which  they  could  not  wholly  veil 
with  sympathetic  sorrow.  The  childish  old  lady 
was  openly  hilarious.  "  That  was  the  best  cup  o'  tea 
I  ever  drinked,"  she  whispered  loud  in  Ann's  ear. 
Jerome  gave  a  scowl  of  utter  contempt  at  her.  When 
they  were  all  gone,  and  the  last  covered  wagon  had 
rolled  out  of  the  yard,  Ann  allowed  Paulina  Maria 
to  divest  her  of  her  bonnet  and  gloves  and  bring  her 
a  cup  of  tea.  Jerome  and  Elmira  ate  their  supper 
at  one  end  of  the  disordered  table ;  then  they  both 
worked  hard,  under  the  orders  of  Paulina  Maria,  to 
set  the  house  in  order.  It  was  quite  late  that  night 
before  Jerome  was  at  liberty  to  creep  off  to  his  own 
bed  up  in  the  slanting  back  chamber.  Paulina  Maria 
and  Belinda  Lamb  had  gone  home,  and  the  bereaved 
family  were  all  alone  in  the  house.  Jerome's  boyish 
heart  ached  hard,  but  he  was  worn  out  physically, 
and  he  soon  fell  asleep. 

About  midnight  he  awoke  with  a  startling  sound 
in  his  ears.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened,  straining- 
ears  and  eyes  in  the  darkness.  Out  of  the  night 


65 


gloom  and  stillness  below  came  his  mother's  voice, 
raised  loud  and  hoarse  in  half-accusatory  prayer,  not 
caring  who  heard,  save  the  Lord. 

' '  What  hast  thou  done,  0  Lord  ?"  demanded  this 
daring  and  pitiful  voice.  "Why  hast  thou  taken 
away  from  me  the  husband  of  my  youth  ?  What 
have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ?  Haven't  I  borne  patient 
ly  the  yoke  Thou  laidst  upon  me  before  ?  Why  didst 
Thou  try  so  hard  one  already  broken  on  the  wheel  of 
Thy  wrath  ?  Why  didst  Thou  drive  a  good  man  to 
destruction  ?  0  Lord,  give  me  back  my  husband,  if 
Thou  art  the  Lord  !  If  Thou  art  indeed  the  Al 
mighty,  prove  it  unto  me  by  working  this  miracle 
which  I  ask  of  Thee  !  Give  me  back  Abel !  give  him 
back  !" 

Ann's  voice  arose  with  a  shriek ;  then  there  was 
silence  for  a  little  space.  Presently  she  spoke  again, 
but  no  longer  in  prayer — only  in  bitter,  helpless  la 
ment.  She  used  no  longer  the  formal  style  of  address 
to  a  Divine  Sovereign  ;  she  dropped  into  her  own 
common  vernacular  of  pain. 

"It  ain't  any  use!  it  ain't  any  use!"  she  wailed 
out.  "  If  there  is  a  God  He  won't  hear  me,  He  won't 
help  me,  He  won't  bring  him  back.  He  only  does 
His  own  will  forever.  Oh,  Abel,  Abel,  Abel !  Oh, 
my  husband  !  Where  are  you  ?  where  are  you  ? 
Where  is  the  head  that  I've  held  on  my  breast  ? 
Where  are  the  lips  I  have  kissed  ?  I  couldn't  even 
see  him  laid  safe  in  his  grave — not  even  that  com 
fort  !  Oh,  Abel,  Abel,  my  husband,  my  husband  !  my 
own  flesh  and  my  own  soul,  torn  away  from  me,  and 
I  left  to  draw  the  breath  of  life  !  Abel,  Abel,  come 
back,  come  back,  come  back  !" 

Ann  Edwards's  voice  broke  into  inarticulate  sobs 


and  moans ;  then  she  did  not  speak  audibly  again. 
Jerome  lay  back  in  his  bed,  cold  and  trembling.  El- 
mira,  in  the  next  chamber,  was  sound  asleep,  but  he 
slept  no  more  that  night.  A  revelation  of  the  love 
and  sorrow  of  this  world  had  come  to  him  through 
his  mother's  voice.  He  was  shamed  and  awed  and 
overwhelmed  by  this  glimpse  of  the  nakedness  of  nat 
ure  and  that  mighty  current  which  swept  him  on 
with  all  mankind.  The  taste  of  knowledge  was  all 
at  once  upon  the  boy's  soul. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  next  morning  Jerome  arose  at  dawn,  and 
crept  down-stairs  noiselessly  on  his  bare  feet,  that  he 
might  not  awake  his  mother.  However,  still  as  he 
was,  he  had  hardly  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
kitchen  before  his  mother  called  to  him  from  her 
bedroom,  the  door  of  which  stood  open. 

"Who's  that  ?"  called  Ann  Edwards,  in  a  strained 
voice  ;  and  Jerome  knew  that  she  had  a  wild  hope 
that  it  was  his  father's  step  she  heard  instead  of  his. 
The  boy  caught  his  breath,  hesitating  a  second,  and 
his  mother  called  again  :  "  Who's  that  ?  Who's  that 
out  in  the  kitchen  ?" 

"  It's  only  me,"  answered  Jerome,  with  that  most 
pitiful  of  apologies  in  his  tone — the  apology  for  pres 
ence  and  very  existence  in  the  stead  of  one  more  be 
loved. 

His  mother  drew  a  great  shuddering  sigh.  "  Come 
in  here,"  she  called  out,  harshly,  and  Jerome  went 
into  the  bedroom  and  stood  beside  her  bed.  The 
curtain  was  not  drawn  over  the  one  window,  and  the 
little  homely  interior  was  full  of  the  pale  dusk  of 
dawn.  This  had  been  Ann  Edwards's  bridal  chamber, 
and  her  children  had  been  born  there.  The  face  of 
that  little  poor  room  was  as  familiar  to  Jerome  as  the 
face  of  his  mother.  From  his  earliest  memory  the 
high  bureau  had  stood  against  the  west  wall,  near  the 
window,  and  a  little  round  table,  with  a  white  towel 


and  a  rosewood  box  on  it,  in  the  corner  at  the  head  of 
the  great  high-posted  bedstead,  which  filled  the  rest 
of  the  room,  with  scant  passageway  at  the  foot  and 
one  side.  Ann's  little  body  scarcely  raised  the  patch 
work  quilt  on  the  bed ;  her  face,  sunken  in  the 
feather  pillows,  looked  small  and  weazened  as  a  sick 
child's  in  the  dim  light.  She  reached  out  one  little 
bony  hand,  clutched  Jerome's  poor  jacket,  and  pulled 
him  close.  "  What's  goin'  to  be  done  ?"  she  de 
manded,  querulously.  " What's  goin'  to  be  done? 
Do  you  know  what's  goin'  to  be  done,  Jerome  Ed 
wards  ?" 

The  boy  stared  at  her,  and  her  sharply  questioning 
eyes  struck  him  dumb. 

Ann  Edwards  had  always  been  the  dominant  spirit 
in  her  own  household.  The  fact  that  she  was  so, 
largely  on  masculine  sufferance,  had  never  been  fully 
recognized  by  herself  or  others.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  the  stratum  of  feminine  dependence  and  help 
lessness,  which  had  underlain  all  her  energetic  asser 
tion,  was  made  manifest,  and  poor  little  Jerome  was 
spurred  out  of  his  boyhood  into  manhood  to  meet 
this  new  demand. 

"What's  goin'  to  be  done?"  his  mother  cried, 
again.  "Why  don't  you  speak,  Jerome  Edwards  ?" 

Then  Jerome  drew  himself  up,  and  a  new  look 
came  into  his  face.  "I've  been  thinkin'  of  it  over," 
he  said,  soberly,  "an' — I've  got  a  plan." 

"What's  goin' to  be  done?"  Ann  raised  herself 
in  bed  by  her  clutch  at  her  son's  arm.  Then  she  let 
go,  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  hugging  herself 
with  her  little  lean  arms,  and  wailing  weakly. 
"What's  goin'  to  be  done  ?  Oh,  oh!  what's  goin'  to 
be  done  ?  Abel's  dead,  he's  dead,  and  Doctor  Pres- 


cott,  he  holds  the  mortgage.  We  'ain't  got  any 
money,  or  any  home.  What's  goin'  to  be  done  ? 
What's  goin'  to  be  done  ?  Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh  I" 

Jerome  grasped  his  mother  by  the  shoulder  and 
tried  to  force  her  back  upon  her  pillows.  "  Come, 
mother,  lay  down,"  said  he. 

"  I  won't  !  I  won't !  I  never  will.  What's  goin'  to 
be  done  ?  What's  goin'  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Mother,  you  lay  right  down  and  stop  your  cryin'," 
said  Jerome  ;  and  his  mother  started,  and  hushed, 
and  stared  at  him,  for  his  voice  sounded  like  his 
father's.  The  boy's  wiry  little  hands  upon  her  shoul 
ders,  and  his  voice  like  his  father's,  constrained  her 
strongly,  and  she  sank  back  ;  and  her  face  appeared 
again,  like  a  thin  wedge  of  piteous  intelligence,  in 
the  great  feather  pillow. 

"Now  you  lay  still,  mother,"  said  Jerome,  and  to 
his  mother's  excited  eyes  he  looked  taller  and  taller, 
as  if  in  very  truth  this  sudden  leap  of  his  boyish 
spirit  into  the  stature  of  a  man  had  forced  his  body 
with  it.  He  straightened  the  quilt  over  his  mother's 
meagre  shoulders.  "  I'm  goin'  to  start  the  fire,"  said 
he,  "and  put  on  the  hasty-pudding,  and  when  it's  all 
ready  I'll  call  Elmira,  and  we'll  help  you  up." 

"What's  goin'  to  be  done  ?"  his  mother  quavered 
again  ;  but  this  time  feebly,  as  if  her  fierce  struggles 
were  almost  hushed  by  contact  with  authority. 

"I've  got  a  plan,"  said  Jerome.  "You  just  lay 
still,  mother,  and  I'll  see  what's  best." 

Ann  Edwards's  eyes  rolled  after  the  boy  as  he  went 
out  of  the  room,  but  she  lay  still,  obediently,  and  said 
not  another  word.  An  unreasoning  confidence  in 
this  child  seized  upon  her.  She  leaned  strongly 
upon  what,  until  now,  she  had  held  the  veriest  reed — 


70 


to  her  own  stupefaction  and  with  doubtful  content, 
but  no  resistance.  Jerome  seemed  suddenly  no  long 
er  her  son ;  the  memory  of  the  time  when  she  had  cra 
dled  and  swaddled  him  failed  her.  The  spirit  of 
his  father  awakened  in  him  filled  her  at  once  with 
strangeness  and  awed  recognition. 

She  heard  the  boy  pattering  about  in  the  kitchen, 
and,  in  spite  of  herself,  the  conviction  that  his  father 
was  out  there,  doing  the  morning  task  which  had 
been  his  for  so  many  years,  was  strong  upon  her. 

When  at  length  Jerome  and  Elmira  came  and  told 
her  breakfast  was  ready,  and  assisted  her  to  rise  and 
dress,  she  was  as  unquestioningly  docile  as  if  the  re 
lationship  between  them  were  reversed.  When  she 
was  seated  in  her  chair  she  even  forbore,  as  was  her 
wont,  to  start  immediately  with  sharp  side  wise  jerks 
of  her  rocker,  but  waited  until  her  children  pushed 
and  drew  her  out  into  the  next  room,  up  to  the 
breakfast -table.  There  were,  moreover,  no  sharp 
commands  and  chidings  as  to  the  household  tasks 
that  morning.  Jerome  and  Elmira  did  as  they  would, 
and  their  mother  sat  quietly  and  ate  her  breakfast. 

Elmira  kept  staring  at  her  mother,  and  then  glanc 
ing  uneasily  at  Jerome.  Her  pretty  face  was  quite 
pale  that  morning,  and  her  eyes  looked  big.  She 
moved  hesitatingly,  or  with  sharp  little  runs  of  de 
cision.  She  went  often  to  the  window  and  stared 
down  the  road — still  looking  for  her  father ;  for  hope 
dies  hard  in  youth,  and  she  had  words  of  triumph  at 
the  sight  of  him  all  ready  upon  her  tongue.  Her 
mother's  strange  demeanor  frightened  her,  and  made 
her  almost  angry.  She  was  too  young  to  grasp  any 
but  the  more  familiar  phases  of  grief,  and  revelations 
of  character  were  to  her  revolutions. 


71 


She  beckoned  her  brother  out  of  the  room  the  first 
chance  she  got,  and  questioned  him. 

"What  ails  mother?"  she  whispered,  out  in  the 
woodshed,  holding  to  the  edge  of  his  jacket  and 
looking  at  him  with  piteous,  scared  eyes. 

Jerome  stood  with  his  shoulders  back,  and  seemed 
to  look  down  at  her  from  his  superior  height  of  cour 
ageous  spirit,  though  she  was  as  tall  as  he. 

"  She's  come  to  herself,"  said  Jerome. 

"She  wasn't  ever  like  this  before." 

' '  Yes,  she  was — inside.  She  ain't  anything  but  a 
woman.  She's  come  to  herself." 

Elmira  began  to  sob  nervously,  still  holding  to  her 
brother's  jacket,  not  trying  to  hide  her  convulsed 
little  face.  "  I  don't  care,  she  scares  me,"  she 
gasped,  under  her  breath,  lest  her  mother  hear. 
"She  ain't  any  way  I've  ever  seen  her.  I'm  'fraid 
she's  goin'  to  be  crazy.  I'm  dreadful  'fraid  mother's 
goin'  to  be  crazy,  Jerome." 

"No,  she  ain't,"  said  Jerome.  "She's  just  come 
to  herself,  I  tell  you." 

"Father's  dead  and  mother's  crazy,  and  Doctor 
Prescott  has  got  the  mortgage,"  wailed  Elmira,  in 
an  utter  rebellion  of  grief. 

Jerome  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  pulled  her  after 
him  at  a  run,  out  of  the  shed,  into  the  cool  spring 
morning  air.  So  early  in  the  day,  with  no  stir  of  life 
except  the  birds  in  sight  or  sound,  the  new  grass  and 
flowering  branches  and  blooming  distances  seemed 
like  the  unreal  heaven  of  a  dream ;  and,  indeed,  noth 
ing  save  their  own  dire  strait  of  life  was  wholly  tan 
gible  and  met  them  but  with  shocks  of  unfamiliar 
things. 

Jerome,  out  in  the  yard,  took  his  sister  by  both  arms, 


72 


piteously  slender  and  cold  through  their  thin  gingham 
sleeves,  and  shook  her  hard,  and  shook  her  again. 

" Jerome  Edwards,  what  —  you  doin' — so  —  for?" 
she  gasped. 

"'Ain't  you  got  anything  to  you  ?  'Ain't  you  got 
anything  to  you  at  all  ?"  said  Jerome,  fiercely. 

"  I — don't  know  what  you  mean  !  Don't,  Jerome 
— don't !  Oh,  Jerome,  I'm  'fraid  you're  crazy,  like 
mother !" 

"'Ain't  you  got  enough  to  you,"  said  Jerome,  still 
shaking  her  as  if  she  had  not  spoken,  "to  control 
your  feelin's  and  do  up  the  housework  nice,  and  not 
kill  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will — I'll  be  just  as  good  as  I  can.  You 
know  I  will.  Don't,  Jerome  !  I  'ain't  cried  before 
mother  this  mornin'.  You  know  I  'ain't." 

"  You  cried  loud  enough,  just  now  in  the  shed,  so 
she  could  hear  you." 

"  I  won't  again.     Don't,  Jerome  !" 

"  You're  'most  a  grown-up  woman,"  said  Jerome, 
ceasing  to  shake  his  sister,  but  holding  her  firm, 
and  looking  at  her  with  sternly  admonishing  eyes. 
'  You're  'most  as  old  as  I  be,  and  I've  got  to  take 
care  of  you  all.  It's  time  you  showed  it  if  there's 
anything  to  you." 

"Oh,  Jerome,  you  look  just  like  father,"  whis 
pered  Elmira,  suddenly,  with  awed,  fascinated  eyes 
on  his  face. 

"Now  you  go  in  and  wash  up  the  dishes,  and 
sweep  the  kitchen,  and  make  up  the  beds,  and  don't 
you  cry  before  mother  or  say  anything  to  pester 
her,"  said  Jerome. 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do,  Jerome  ?"  Elmira  asked, 
timidly. 


"I'm  goin'  to  take  care  of  the  horse  and  finish 
plantin'  them  beans  first/' 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do  then  ?" 

"Somethin' —  you  wait  and  see."  Jerome  spoke 
with  his  first  betrayal  of  boyish  weakness,  for  a  cer 
tain  importance  crept  into  his  tone. 

Elmira  instinctively  recognized  it,  and  took  advan 
tage  of  it.  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  ask  mother,  Jerome 
Edwards  ?"  she  said. 

"I'm  goin'  to  do  what's  best,"  answered  Jerome  ; 
and  again  that  uncanny  gravity  of  authority  which 
so  awed  her  was  in  his  face. 

When  he  again  bade  her  go  into  the  house  and  do 
as  he  said,  she  obeyed  with  a  longing,  incredulous 
look  at  him. 

Jerome  had  not  eaten  much  breakfast;  indeed,  he 
had  not  finished  when  Elmira  had  beckoned  him 
out.  But  he  said  to  himself  that  he  did  not  want 
any  more — he  would  go  straight  about  his  tasks. 

Jerome,  striking  out  through  the  dewy  wind  of 
foot-path  towards  the  old  barn,  heard  suddenly  a 
voice  calling  him  by  name.  It  was  a  voice  as  low 
and  heavy  as  a  man's,  but  had  a  nervous  feminine 
impulse  in  it.  "Jerome  !"  it  called.  "Jerome  Ed 
wards  !" 

Jerome  turned,  and  saw  Paulina  Maria  coming  up 
the  road,  walking  with  a  firm,  swaying  motion  of  her 
whole  body  from  her  feet,  her  cotton  draperies  blow 
ing  around  her  like  sheathing-leaves. 

Jerome  stood  still  a  minute,  watching  her ;  then 
he  went  back  to  the  house,  to  the  door,  and  stationed 
himself  before  it.  He  stood  there  like  a  sentinel 
when  Paulina  Maria  drew  near.  The  meaning  of 
war  was  in  his  shoulder,  his  expanded  boyish  chest, 


74 


his  knitted  brows,  set  chin  and  mouth,  and  unflinch 
ing  eyes ;  he  needed  only  a  sword  or  gun  to  com 
plete  the  picture. 

Paulina  Maria  stopped,  and  looked  at  him  with 
haughty  wonder.  She  was  not  yet  intimidated,  but 
she  was  surprised,  and  stirred  with  rising  indigna 
tion. 

"  How's  your  mother  this  morning,  Jerome  ?"  said 
she. 

"Well  's  she  can  be/'  replied  Jerome,  gruffly,  with 
a  wary  eye  upon  her  skirts  when  they  swung  out  over 
her  advancing  knee  ;  for  Paulina  Maria  was  minded 
to  enter  the  house  with  no  further  words  of  parley. 
He  gathered  himself  up,  in  all  his  new  armor  of  cour 
age  and  defiance,  and  stood  firm  in  her  path. 

"  Fm  going  in  to  see  your  mother,"  said  Paulina 
Maria,  looking  at  him  as  if  she  suspected  she  did  not 
understand  aright. 

"No,  you  ain't,"  returned  Jerome. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  You  ain't  goin'  in  to  see  my  mother  this  mornin'." 

"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  She's  got  to  be  kept  still  and  not  see  anybody  but 
us,  or  she'll  be  sick." 

"I  guess  it  won't  hurt  her  any  to  see  me."  Paulina 
Maria  turned  herself  sidewise,  thrust  out  a  sharp  el 
bow,  and  prepared  to  force  herself  betwixt  Jerome 
and  the  door-post  like  a  wedge. 

"  You  stand  back  !"  said  Jerome,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  her  face. 

Paulina  Maria  turned  pale.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
actin'  so  ?"  she  said,  again.  "Did  your  mother  tell 
you  not  to  let  me  in  ?" 

"  Mother's  got  to  be  kept  still  and  not  see  anybody 


75 


but  us,  or  she'll  be  sick.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  any 
body  come  talkin'  to  her  to-day/'  said  Jerome,  with 
his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  Paulina  Maria's  face. 

Paulina  Maria  was  like  a  soldier  whose  courage  is 
invincible  in  all  tried  directions.  Up  to  all  the  fa 
miliar  and  registered  batteries  of  life  she  could  walk 
without  flinching,  and  yield  to  none  ;  but  here  was 
something  new,  which  savored  perchance  of  the  un 
canny,  and  a  power  not  of  the  legitimate  order  of 
things.  There  was  something  frightful  and  abnormal 
to  her  in  Jerome's  pale  face,  which  did  not  seem  his 
own,  his  young  eyes  full  of  authority  of  age,  and  the  in 
timation  of  repelling  force  in  his  slight,  childish  form. 

Paulina  Maria  might  have  driven  a  fierce  watch 
dog  from  her  path  with  her  intrepid  will;  she  might 
have  pushed  aside  a  stouter  arm  in  her  way;  but  this 
defence,  whose  persistence  in  the  face  of  apparent 
feebleness  seemed  to  indicate  some  supernatural  pow 
er,  made  her  quail.  From  her  spare  diet  and  hard 
labor,  from  her  cleanliness  and  rigid  holding  to  one 
line  of  thought  and  life,  the  veil  of  flesh  had  grown 
thin  and  transparent,  like  any  ascetic's  of  old,  and  she 
was  liable  to  a  ready  conception  of  the  abnormal  and 
supernatural. 

With  one  half -stern,  half -fearful  glance  at  the  for 
bidding  child  in  her  path,  she  turned  about  and  went 
away,  pausing,  however,  in  the  vantage-point  of  the 
road  and  calling  back  in  an  indignant  voice,  which 
trembled  slightly,  "You  needn't  think  you're  goin' 
to  send  folks  home  this  way  many  times,  Jerome  Ed 
wards  !"  Then,  with  one  last  baffled  glance  at  the 
pale,  strange  little  figure  in  the  Edwards  door,  she 
went  home,  debating  grimly  with  herself  over  her 
weakness  and  her  groundless  fear. 


76 


Jerome  waited  until  she  was  out  of  sight,,  gave  one 
last  look  down  the wroad  to  be  sure  no  other  invaders 
were  approaching  his  fortress,  and  then  went  on  to 
the  barn.  When  he  rolled  back  the  door  and  entered, 
the  old  white  horse  stirred  in  his  stall  and  turned  to 
look  at  him.  There  was  something  in  the  glance  over 
the  shoulder  of  that  long  white  face  which  caused  the 
heart  of  the  boy  to  melt  within  him.  He  pressed 
into  the  stall,  flung  up  his  little  arms  around  the 
great  neck,  and  sobbed  and  sobbed,  his  face  hid 
against  the  heaving  side. 

The  old  horse  had  looked  about,  expecting  to  see 
Jerome's  father  coming  to  feed  and  harness  him  into 
the  wood-wagon,  and  Jerome  knew  it,  and  there  was 
something  about  the  consciousness  of  loss  and  sorrow 
of  this  faithful  dumb  thing  which  smote  him  in  a 
weaker  place  than  all  human  intelligence  of  it. 

Abel  Edwards  had  loved  this  poor  animal  well,  and 
had  set  great  store  by  his  faithful  service  ;  and  the 
horse  had  loved  him,  after  the  dumb  fashion  of  his 
kind,  and,  indeed,  not  sensing  that  he  was  dead,  loved 
him  still,  with  a  love  as  for  the  living,  which  no  hu 
man  being  could  compass.  Jerome,  clinging  to  this 
dumb  beast,  to  which  alone  the  love  of  his  father  had 
not  commenced,  by  those  cruel  and  insensible  grada 
tions,  to  become  the  memory  which  is  the  fate,  as  in 
evitable  as  death  itself,  of  all  love  when  life  is  past, 
felt  for  the  minute  all  his  new  strength  desert  him, 
and  relapsed  into  childhood  and  clinging  grief. 
"  You  loved  him,  didn't  you  ?"  he  whispered  be 
tween  his  sobs.  "You  loved  poor  father,  didn't 
you,  Peter  ?"  And  when  the  horse  turned  his  white 
face  and  looked  at  him,  with  that  grave  contempla 
tion  seemingly  indicative  of  a  higher  rather  than 


77 


a  lower  intelligence,  with  which  an  animal  will  often 
watch  human  emotion,  he  sobbed  and  sobbed  again, 
and  felt  his  heart  fail  him  at  the  realization  of  his 
father's  death,  and  of  himself,  a  poor  child,  with  the 
burden  of  a  man  upon  his  shoulders.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  few  minutes  that  he  yielded  thus,  for  the 
stature  of  the  mind  of  the  boy  had  in  reality  ad 
vanced,  and  soon  he  drew  himself  up  to  it,  stopped 
weeping,  led  the  horse  out  to  the  well,  drew  bucket 
after  bucket  of  water,  and  held  them  patiently  to  his 
plashing  lips.  Then  a  neighbor  in  the  next  house, 
a  half-acre  away,  looking  across  the  field,  called  her 
mother  to  see  how  much  Jerome  Edwards  looked 
like  his  father.  "  It  gave  me  quite  a  turn  when  I  see 
him  come  out,  he  looked  so  much  like  his  father,  for 
all  he's  so  small/''  said  she.  ' '  He  walked  out  just 
like  him  ;  I  declare,  I  didn't  know  but  he'd  come 
back." 

Jerome,  leading  the  horse,  walked  back  to  the  barn 
in  his  father's  old  tracks,  with  his  father's  old  gait, 
reproducing  the  dead  with  the  unconscious  mimicry 
of  the  living,  while  the  two  women  across  the  field 
watched  him  from  their  window.  "It  ain't  a  good 
sign — he's  got  a  hard  life  before  him,"  said  the  older 
of  the  two,  who  had  wild  blue  eyes  under  a  tousle  of 
gray  hair,  and  was  held  in  somewhat  dubious  repute 
because  of  spiritualistic  tendencies. 

"  Guess  he'll  have  a  hard  life  enough,  without  any 
signs — most  of  us  do.  He  won't  have  to  make  shirts, 
anyhow,"  rejoined  her  daughter,  who  had  worn  out 
her  youth  with  fine  stitching  of  linen  shirts  for  a 
Jew  peddler.  Then  she  settled  back  over  her  needle 
work  with  a  heavy  sigh,  indicative  of  a  return  from 
the  troubles  of  others  to  her  own. 


78 


Jerome  fed  the  old  horse,  and  rubbed  him  down 
carefully.  "  ShaVt  be  sold  whilst  Fm  alive,"  he  as 
sured  him,  with  a  stern  nod,  as  he  combed  out  his 
forelock,  and  the  animal  looked  at  him  again,  with 
that  strange  attention  which  is  so  much  like  the  at 
tention  of  understanding. 

After  his  tasks  in  the  barn  were  done  Jerome  went 
out  to  the  sloping  garden  and  finished  planting  the 
beans.  He  could  see  Elmira's  smooth  dark  head 
passing  to  and  fro  before  the  house  windows,  and 
knew  that  she  was  fulfilling  his  instructions. 

He  kept  a  sharp  watch  upon  the  road  for  other 
female  friends  of  his  mother's,  who,  he  was  resolved, 
should  not  enter. 

"  Them  women  will  only  get  her  all  stirred  up 
again.  She's  got  to  get  used  to  it,  and  they'll  just 
hinder  her/'  he  said,  quite  aloud  to  himself,  having 
in  some  strange  fashion  discovered  the  truth  that 
the  human  mind  must  adjust  itself  to  its  true  bal 
ance  after  the  upheaval  of  sorrow. 

After  the  beans  were  planted  it  was  only  nine 
o'clock.  Jerome  went  soberly  down  the  garden- 
slope,  stepping  carefully  between  the  planted  ridges, 
then  into  the  house,  with  a  noiseless  lift  of  the  latch 
and  glide  over  the  threshold ;  for  Elmira  signalled 
him  from  the  window  to  be  still. 

His  mother  sat  in  her  high -backed  rocker,  fast 
asleep,  her  sharp  eyes  closed,  her  thin  mouth  gaping, 
an  expression  of  vacuous  peace  over  her  whole  face, 
and  all  her  wiry  little  body  relaxed.  Jerome  motioned 
to  Elmira,  and  the  two  tiptoed  out  across  the  little 
front  entry  to  the  parlor. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  asleep  ?"  whispered  Je 
rome. 


79 


"  'Most  an  hour.  You  don't  s'pose  mother's  goin' 
to  die  too,  do  you,  Jerome  ?" 

"  Course  she  ain't." 

"  I  never  saw  her  go  to  sleep  in  the  daytime  before. 
Mother  don't  act  a  mite  like  herself.  She  'ain't  spoke 
out  to  me  once  this  mornin',"  poor  little  Elmira 
whimpered ;  but  her  brother  hushed  her,  angrily. 

"  Don't  you  know  enough  to  keep  still — a  great 
big  girl  like  you  ?"  he  said. 

"  Jerome,  I  have.  I  'ain't  cried  a  mite  before  her, 
and  she  couldn't  hear  that,"  whispered  Elmira,  chok 
ingly. 

11  Mother's  got  awful  sharp  ears,  you  know  she 
has,"  insisted  Jerome.  "Now  I'm  goin'  away,  and 
don't  you  let  anybody  come  in  here  while  I'm  gone 
and  bother  mother." 

"  I'll  have  to  let  Cousin  Paulina  Maria  and  Aunt 
Belinda  in,  if  they  come,"  said  Elmira,  staring  at  him 
wonderingly.  Neither  she  nor  her  mother  knew 
that  Paulina  Maria  had  already  been  there  and  been 
turned  away. 

"  You  just  lock  the  house  up,  and  not  go  to  the 
door,"  said  Jerome,  decisively. 

Elmira  kept  staring  at  him,  as  if  she  doubted  her 
eyes  and  ears.  She  felt  a  certain  awe  of  her  brother. 
"Where  you  goin'  ?"  she  inquired,  half  timidly. 

"  I'll '  tell  you  when  I  get  back,"  replied  Jerome. 
He  went  out  with  dignity,  and  Elmira  heard  him  on 
the  stairs.  "  He's  goin'  to  dress  up,"  she  thought. 

She  sat  down  by  the  window,  well  behind  the  cur 
tain,  that  any  one  approaching  might  not  see  her, 
and  waited.  She  had  wakened  that  morning  as  into 
a  new  birth  of  sense,  and  greeted  the  world  with 
helpless  childish  weeping,  but  now  she  was  begin- 


80 


ning  to  settle  comfortably  into  this  strange  order  of 
things.  Her  face,  as  she  sat  thus,  wore  the  ready 
curves  of  smiles  instead  of  tears.  Elmira  was  one 
whose  strength  would  always  be  in  dependence.  Now 
her  young  brother  showed  himself,  as  if  by  a  miracle, 
a  leader  and  a  strong  prop,  and  she  could  assume 
again  her  natural  attitude  of  life  and  growth.  She 
was  no  longer  strange  to  herself  in  these  strange 
ways,  and  that  was  wherein  all  the  bitterness  of 
strangeness  lay. 

When  Jerome  came  down-stairs,  in  his  little  poor 
best  jacket  and  trousers  and  his  clean  Sunday  shirt, 
she  stood  in  the  door  and  looked  at  him  curiously, 
but  with  a  perfect  rest  of  confidence. 

Jerome  looked  at  her  with  dignity,  and  yet  with  a 
certain  childish  importance,  without  which  he  would 
have  ceased  to  be  himself  at  all.  "Look  out  for 
mother,"  he  whispered,  admonishingly,  and  went  out, 
holding  his  head  up  and  his  shoulders  back,  and 
feeling  his  sister's  wondering  and  admiring  eyes 
upon  him,  with  a  weakness  of  pride,  and  yet  with  no 
abatement  of  his  strength  of  purpose,  which  was 
great  enough  to  withstand  self-recognition. 

The  boy  that  morning  had  a  new  gait  when  he  had 
once  started  down  the  road.  The  habit  of  his  whole 
life — and,  more  than  that,  an  inherited  habit — ceased 
to  influence  him.  This  new  exaltation  of  spirit  con 
trolled  even  bones  and  muscles. 

Jerome,  now  he  had  fairly  struck  out  in  life  with  a 
purpose  of  his  own,  walked  no  longer  like  his  poor 
father,  with  that  bent  shuffling  lope  of  worn-out 
middle  age.  His  soul  informed  his  whole  body,  and 
raised  it  above  that  of  any  simple  animal  that  seeks 
a  journey's  end.  His  head  was  up  and  steady,  as  if 


81 


he  bore  a  treasure- jar  on  it,  his  back  flat  as  a  soldier's; 
he  swung  his  little  arms  at  his  sides  and  advanced 
with  proud  and  even  pace. 

Jerome's  old  gaping  shoes  were  nicely  greased,  and 
he  himself  had  made  a  last  endeavor  to  close  the 
worst  apertures  with  a  bit  of  shoemaker's  thread. 
He  had  had  quite  a  struggle  with  himself,  before 
starting,  regarding  these  forlorn  old  shoes  and  an 
other  pair,  spick  and  span  and  black,  and  heavily 
clamping  with  thick  new  soles,  which  Uncle  Ozias 
Lamb  had  sent  over  for  him  to  wear  to  the  funeral. 

"  He  sent  'em  over,  an'  says  you  may  wear  'em  to 
the  funeral,  if  you're  real  careful,"  his  aunt  Belinda 
had  said,  and  then  added,  with  her  gentle  sniff  of 
deprecation  and  apology :  te  He  says  you'll  have  to 
give  'em  back  again — they  ain't  to  keep.  He  says 
he's  got  so  behindhand  lately  he  'ain't  got  any  tithes 
to  give  to  the  Lord.  He  says  he  'ain't  got  nothing 
that  will  divide  up  into  ten  parts,  'cause  he  'ain't  got 
more'n  half  one  whole  part  himself."  Belinda  Lamb 
repeated  her  husband's  bitter  saying  out  of  his  heart 
of  poverty  with  a  scared  look,  and  yet  with  a  certain 
relish  and  soft  aping  of  his  defiant  manner. 

"  I  don't  want  anybody  to  give  when  I  can't  give 
back  again,"  Ann  had  returned.  "  Ozias  has  always 
done  full  as  much  for  us  as  we've  done  for  him." 
Then  she  had  charged  Jerome  to  be  careful  of  the 
shoes,  and  not  stub  the  toes,  so  his  uncle  would  have 
difficulty  in  selling  them. 

"I'll  wear  my  old  shoes,"  Jerome  had  replied,  sul 
lenly,  but  then  had  been  borne  down  by  the  chorus 
of  feminine  rebuke  and  misunderstanding  of  his  posi 
tion.  They  thought,  one  and  all,  that  he  was  wroth 
because  the  shoes  were  not  given  to  him,  and  the 


8*2 


very  pride  which  forbade  him  to  wear  them  con 
strained  him  to  do  so. 

However,  this  morning  he  had  looked  at  them 
long,  lifted  them  and  weighed  them,  turning  them 
this  way  and  that,  put  them  on  his  feet  and  stood 
contemplating  them.  He  was  ashamed  to  wear  his 
old  broken  shoes  to  call  on  grand  folks,  but  he  was 
too  proud  and  too  honest,  after  all,  to  wear  these 
borrowed  ones. 

So  he  stepped  along  now  with  an  occasional  uneasy 
glance  at  his  feet,  but  with  independence  in  his 
heart.  Jerome  walked  straight  down  the  road  to 
Squire  Eben  Merritt's.  The  cut  across  the  fields 
would  have  been  much  shorter,  for  the  road  made  a 
great  curve  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  but  the  boy  felt 
that  the  dignified  highway  was  the  only  route  for 
him,  bent  on  such  errands,  in  his  best  clothes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SQUIRE  EBEJ^  MERRITT'S  house  stood  behind  a  file 
of  dark  pointed  evergreen  trees,  which  had  grown 
and  thickened  until  the  sunlight  never  reached  the 
house -front,  which  showed,  in  consequence,  green 
patches  of  moss  and  mildew.  One  entering  had, 
moreover,  to  turn  out,  as  it  were,  for  the  trees,  and 
take  a  circuitous  route  around  them  to  the  right  to 
the  front-door  path,  which  was  quite  slippery  with  a 
film  of  green  moss. 

There  had  been,  years  ago,  a  gap  betwixt  the  trees 
— a  gate's  width — but  now  none  could  enter  unless 
the  branches  were  lopped,  and  Eben  Merritt  would 
not  allow  that.  His  respect  for  that  silent  file  of 
sylvan  giants,  keeping  guard  before  his  house  against 
winds  and  rains  and  fierce  snows,  was  greater  than 
his  hospitality  and  concern  for  the  ease  of  guests. 
"Let  'em  go  round  —  it  won't  hurt  'em,"  he  would 
say,  with  his  great  merry  laugh,  when  his  wife  some 
times  suggested  that  the  old  gateway  should  be  re 
paired.  However,  it  was  only  a  few  times  during  the 
year  that  the  matter  disturbed  her,  for  she  was  not 
one  to  falter  long  at  the  small  stumbling-blocks  of 
life  ;  a  cheerful  skip  had  she  over  them,  or  a  placid 
glide  aside.  When  she  had  the  minister's  daughter 
and  other  notable  ladies  to  tea,  who  held  it  due  to 
themselves  to  enter  the  front  door,  she  was  somewhat 
uneasy  lest  they  draggle  their  fine  petticoats  skirting 


84 


the  trees,  especially  if  the  grass  was  dewy  or  there 
was  snow  ;  otherwise,  she  cared  not.  The  Squire's 
friends,  who  often  came  ^in  muddy  boots,  preferred 
the  east-side  door,  which  was  in  reality  good  enough 
for  all  but  ladies  coming  to  tea,  having  three  stone 
steps,  a  goodly  protecting  hood  painted  green,  with 
sides  of  lattice-work,  and  opening  into  a  fine  square 
hall,  with  landscape  -  paper  on  the  walls,  whence  led 
the  sitting-room  and  the  great  middle  room,  where 
the  meals  were  served. 

Jerome  went  straight  round  to  this  side  door  and 
raised  the  knocker.  He  had  to  wait  a  little  while 
before  any  one  came,  and  looked  about  him.  He  had 
been  in  Squire  Eben  Merritt's  east  yard  before,  but 
now  he  had  a  sense  of  invasion  which  gave  it  new 
meanings  for  him.  A  great  straggling  rose-vine  grew 
over  the  hood  of  the  door,  and  its  young  leaves  were 
pricking  through  the  lattice  -  work  ;  it  was  old  arid 
needed  trimming ;  there  were  many  long  barren 
shoots  of  last  year.  However,  Squire  Merritt  guarded 
jealously  the  freedom  of  the  rose,  and  would  not  have 
it  meddled  with,  arguing  that  it  had  thriven  thus 
since  the  time  of  his  grandfather,  who  had  planted 
it ;  that  this  was  its  natural  condition  of  growth,  and 
it  would  die  if  pruned. 

Jerome  looked  out  of  this  door  -  arbor,  garlanded 
with  the  old  rose-vine,  into  a  great  yard,  skirted  be 
yond  the  driveway  with  four  great  flowering  cherry- 
trees,  so  old  that  many  of  the  boughs  would  never 
bud  again,  and  thrust  themselves  like  skeleton  arms 
of  death  through  the  soft  masses  of  bloom  out  into 
the  blue.  One  tree  there  was  which  had  scarcely  any 
boughs  left,  for  the  winds  had  taken  them,  and  was 
the  very  torso  of  a  tree;  but  Squire  Eben  Merritt 


85 


would  not  have  even  that  cut,,  for  he  loved  a  tree 
past  its  usefulness  as  faithfully  as  he  loved  an  ani 
mal.  "Well  do  I  remember  the  cherries  I  used  to 
eat  off  that  tree,  when  I  was  so  high/7  Eben  Merritt 
would  say.  "  Many  a  man  has  done  less  to  earn  a 
good  turn  from  me  than  this  old  tree,  which  has  fed 
me  with  its  best  fruit.  Do  you  think  I'll  turn  and 
kill  it  now  ?" 

He  had  the  roots  of  the  old  trees  carefully  dug 
about  and  tended,  though  not  a  dead  limb  lopped. 
Nurture,  and  not  surgery,  was  the  doctrine  of  Squire 
Merritt.  "Let  the  earth  take  what  it  gave/'  he 
said  ;  "  I'll  not  interfere." 

Jerome  had  heard  these  sayings  of  Squire  Merritt's 
about  the  trees.  They  had  been  repeated,  because 
people  thought  such  ideas  queer  and  showing  lack 
of  common-sense.  He  had  heard  them  unthinking 
ly,  but  now,  standing  on  Squire  Merritt's  door-step, 
looking  at  his  old  tree  pensioners,  whom  he  would 
not  desert  in  their  infirmity,  he  remembered,  and 
the  great  man's  love  for  his  trees  gave  him  reason, 
with  a  sudden  leap  of  faith,  to  believe  in  his  kind 
ness  towards  him.  "Fm  better  than  an  old  tree," 
reasoned  Jerome,  and  raised  the  knocker  again 
boldly  and  let  it  fall  with  a  great  brazen  clang. 
Then  he  jumped  and  almost  fell  backward  when 
the  door  was  flung  open  suddenly,  and  there  stood 
Squire  Merritt  himself. 

"What  the  devil — "began  Squire  Merritt;  then 
he  stopped  and  chuckled  behind  his  great  beard 
when  he  saw  Jerome's  alarmed  eyes.  "  Hullo,"  said 
he,  "who  have  we  got  here  ?"  Eben  Merritt  had  a 
soft  place  in  his  heart  for  all  small  young  creatures 
of  his  kind,  and  always  returned  their  timid  obei- 


sances,  when  he  met  them,  with  a  friendly  smile 
twinkling  like  light  through  his  bushy  beard.  Still, 
like  many  a  man  of  such  general  kindly  bearings,  he 
could  not  easily  compass  details,  and  oftener  than 
not  could  not  have  told  which  child  he  greeted. 

Eben  Merritt,  outside  his  own  family,  was  utterly 
impartial  in  magnanimity,  and  dealt  with  broad  prin 
ciples  rather  than  individuals.  Now  he  looked  hard 
at  Jerome,  and  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  tell  what 
particular  boy  he  was,  yet  recognized  him  fully  in 
the  broader  sense  of  young  helplessness  and  timid 
need.  "Speak  up,"  said  he;  "don't  be  scared.  I 
know  all  the  children,  and  I  don't  know  one  of  'em. 
Speak  up  like  a  man." 

Then  Jerome,  stung  to  the  resolution  to  show  this 
great  Squire,  Eben  Merritt,  that  he  was  not  to  be 
classed  among  the  children,  but  was  a  man  indeed, 
and  equivalent  to  those  duties  of  one  which  had  sud 
denly  been  thrust  upon  him,  looked  his  questioner 
boldly  in  the  face  and  answered.  "  I'm  Jerome  Ed 
wards,"  said  he  ;  "  and  Abel  Edwards  was  my  father." 

Eben  Merritt's  face  changed  in  a  minute.  He 
looked  gravely  at  the  boy,  and  nodded  with  under 
standing.  "Yes,  I  know  now,"  said  he  ;  "I  remem 
ber.  You  look  like  your  father."  Then  he  added, 
kindly,  but  with  a  scowl  of  perplexity  as  to  what  the 
boy  was  standing  there  for,  and  what  he  wanted  : 
"Well,  my  boy,  what  is  it  ?  Did  your  mother  send 
you  on  some  errand  to  Mrs.  Merritt  ?" 

Jerome  scraped  his  foot,  his  manners  at  his  com 
mand  by  this  time,  and  his  old  hat  was  in  his  hand. 
"No,  sir,"  said  he  ;  "I  came  to  see  you,  sir,  if  you 
please,  sir,  and  mother  didn't  send  me.  I  came  my 
self." 


87 


"  You  came  to  see  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir/'  Jerome  scraped  again,  but  his  black  eyes 
on  the  Squire's  face  were  quite  fearless  and  steady. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  stared  at  him  wonderingly  ; 
then  he  cast  an  uneasy  glance  at  his  fishing-pole,  for 
he  had  come  to  the  door  with  his  tackle  in  his  hands, 
and  he  gave  a  wistful  thought  to  the  brooks  running 
through  the  young  shadows  of  the  spring  woods,  and 
the  greening  fields,  and  the  still  trout-pools  he  had 
meant  to  invade  with  no  delay,  and  from  which  this 
childish  visitor,  bound  probably  upon  some  foolish 
errand,  would  keep  him.  Then  he  found  his  own  I 
manners,  which  were  those  of  his  good  old  family, 
courteous  alike  to  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor. 

"Well,  if  you've  come  to  see  me,  walk  in,  sir," 
cried  Squire  Merritt,  with  a  great  access  of  hearti 
ness,  and  he  laid  his  fishing-tackle  carefully  on  the 
long  mahogany  table  in  the  entry,  and  motioned  Je 
rome  to  follow  him  into  the  room  on  the  left. 

Jerome  had  never  been  inside  the  house  before,  but 
this  room  had  a  strangeness  of  its  own  which  made 
him  feel,  when  he  entered,  as  if  he  had  crossed  the 
border  of  a  foreign  land.  It  was  typically  unlike 
any  other  room  in  the  village.  Jerome,  whose  tastes 
were  as  yet  only  imitative  and  departed  not  from  the 
lines  to  which  they  had  been  born  and  trained,  sur 
veyed  it  with  astonishment  and  some  contempt.  "  No 
carpet,"  he  thought,  "and  no  haircloth  sofa,  and  no 
rocking-chair  I" 

He  stared  at  the  skins  of  bear  and  deer  which  cov 
ered  the  floor,  at  the  black  settle  with  a  high  carven 
back,  at  a  carved  chest  of  black  oak,  at  the  smaller 
pelts  of  wolf  and  fox  which  decorated  walls  and 
chairs,  at  a  great  pair  of  antlers,  and  even  a  noble 


88 


eagle  sitting  in  state  upon  the  top  of  a  secretary. 
Squire  Merritt  had  filled  this  room  and  others  with 
his  trophies  of  the  chase,  for  he  had  been  a  mighty 
hunter  from  his  youth. 

"  Sit  down,,  sir,"  he  told  Jerome,  a  little  impa 
tiently,  for  he  longed  to  be  away  for  his  fishing,  and 
the  stupid  abstraction  from  purpose  which  unwonted 
spectacles  always  cause  in  childhood  are  perplexing 
and  annoying  to  their  elders,  who  cannot  leave  their 
concentration  for  any  sight  of  the  eyes,  if  they  wish. 

He  indicated  a  chair,  at  which  Jerome,  suddenly 
brought  to  himself,  looked  dubiously,  for  it  had  a 
fine  fox-skin  over  the  back,  and  he  wondered  if  he 
might  sit  on  it  or  should  remove  it. 

The  Squire  laughed.  "  Sit  down,"  he  ordered ; 
"you  won't  hurt  the  pelt."  And  then  he  asked,  to 
put  him  at  his  ease,  "  Did  you  ever  shoot  a  fox,  sir  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Ever  fire  a  gun  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Want  to  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Jerome  did  not  respond  with  the  ready  eagerness 
which  the  Squire  had  expected.  He  had  suddenly 
resolved,  in  his  kindness  and  pity  towards  his  father 
less  state,  knowing  well  the  longings  of  a  boy,  to  take 
him  out  in  the  field  and  let  him  fire  his  gun,  and 
change,  if  he  could,  that  sad  old  look  he  wore,  even 
if  he  fished  none  that  day ;  but  Jerome  disappointed 
him  in  his  purpose.  "He  hasn't  much  spirit,"  he 
thought,  and  stood  upon  the  hearth,  before  the  open 
fireplace,  and  said  no  more,  but  waited  to  hear  what 
Jerome  had  come  for. 

The  Squire  was  far  from  an  old  man,  though  he 


seemed  so  to  the  boy.  He  was  scarcely  middle-aged, 
and  indeed  many  still  called  him  the  "  young  Squire," 
as  they  had  done  when  his  father  died,  some  fifteen 
years  before.  He  was  a  massively  built  man,  stand 
ing  a  good  six  feet  tall  in  his  boots ;  and  in  his  boots, 
thick-soled,,  and  rusty  with  old  mud  splashes,  reach 
ing  high  above  his  knees  over  his  buckskin  breeches, 
Squire  Eben  Merritt  almost  always  stood.  He  was 
scarcely  ever  seen  without  them,  except  in  the  meet 
ing-house  on  a  Sunday — when  he  went,  which  was 
not  often.  There  was  a  tradition  that  he  in  his  boots, 
just  home  from  a  quail  sortie  in  the  swamp,  had  once 
invaded  the  best  parlor,  where  his  wife  had  her  lady 
friends  to  tea,  and  which  boasted  a  real  Turkey  car 
pet — the  only  one  in  town. 

Eben  Merritt  in  these  great  hunting-boots,  clad  as 
to  the  rest  of  him  in  stout  old  buckskin  and  rough 
coat  and  leather  waistcoat,  with  his  fair  and  ruddy 
face  well  covered  by  his  golden  furze  of  beard,  which 
hung  over  his  breast,  lounged  heavily  on  the  hearth, 
and  waited  with  a  noble  patience,  eschewing  all  de 
sire  of  fishing,  until  this  pale,  grave  little  lad  should 
declare  his  errand. 

But  Jerome,  with  the  great  Squire  standing  wait 
ing  before  him,  felt  suddenly  tongue-tied.  He  was 
not  scared,  though  his  heart  beat  fast ;  it  was  only 
that  the  words  would  not  come. 

The  Squire  watched  him  kindly  with  his  bright, 
twinkling  blue  eyes  under  his  brush  of  yellow  hair. 
"  Take  your  time,"  said  he,  and  threw  one  arm  up 
over  the  mantel-shelf,  and  stood  as  if  it  were  easier 
for  him  than  to  sit,  and  indeed  it  might  have  been 
so,  for  from  his  stalking  of  woods  and  long  motion 
less  watches  at  the  lair  of  game,  he  had  had  good 


90 


opportunities  to  accustom  himself  to  rest  at  ease 
upon  his  feet. 

Jerome  might  have  spoken  sooner  had  the  Squire 
moved  away  from  before  him  and  taken  his  eyes  from 
his  face,  for  sometimes  too  ardent  attention  becomes 
a  citadel  for  storming  to  a  young  and  modest  soul. 
However,  at  last  he  turned  his  own  head  aside,  and 
his  black  eyes  from  the  Squire's  keen  blue  eyes,  and 
would  then  have  spoken  had  not  the  door  opened 
suddenly  and  little  Lucina  come  in  on  a  run  and 
stopped  short  a  minute  with  timid  finger  to  her 
mouth,  and  eyes  as  innocently  surprised  as  a  little 
rabbit's. 

Lucina,  being  unhooded  to-day,  showed  all  her 
shower  of  shining  yellow  curls,  which  covered  her 
little  shoulders  and  fell  to  her  childish  waist.  Her 
fat  white  neck  and  dimpled  arms  were  bare  and 
gleaming  through  the  curls,  and  she  wore  a  lace- 
trimmed  pinafore,  and  a  frock  of  soft  blue  wool  scal 
loped  with  silk  around  the  hem,  revealing  below  the 
finest  starched  pantalets,  and  little  morocco  shoes. 

Squire  Eben  laughed  fondly,  to  see  her  start  and 
hesitate,  as  a  man  will  laugh  at  the  pretty  tricks 
of  one  he  loves.  "  Come  here,  Pretty,"  he  cried. 
"  There's  nothing  for  you  to  be  afraid  of.  This  is 
only  poor  little  Jerome  Edwards.  Come  and  shake 
hands  with  him,"  and  bade  her  thus,  thinking  an 
other  child  might  encourage  the  boy. 

With  that  Lucina  hesitated  no  longer,  but  ad 
vanced,  smiling  softly,  with  the  little  lady-ways  her 
mother  had  taught  her,  and  held  out  her  white 
morsel  of  a  hand  to  the  boy.  ' '  How  do  you  do  ?" 
she  said,  prettily,  though  still  a  little  shyly,  for  she 
was  mindful  how  her  gingerbread  had  been  refused, 


91 


and  might  not  this  strange  poor  boy  also  thrust  the 
hand  away  with  scorn  ?  She  said  that,  and  looking 
down,  lest  that  black  angry  flash  of  his  eyes  startle 
her  again,  she  saw  his  poor  broken  shoes,  and  gave  a 
soft  little  cry,  then  made  a  pitiful  lip,  and  stared  hard 
at  them  with  wide  eyes  full  of  astonished  compassion, 
for  the  shoes  seemed  to  her  much  more  forlorn  than 
bare  feet. 

Jerome's  eyes  followed  hers,  and  he  sprang  up 
suddenly,  his  face  blazing,  and  made  out  that  he  did 
not  see  the  proffered  little  hand.  "  Pretty  well,"  he 
returned,  gruffly.  Then  he  said  to  the  Squire,  with 
no  lack  of  daring  now,  "  Can  I  see  you  alone,  sir  ?" 

The  Squire  stared  at  him  a  second,  then  his  great 
chest  heaved  with  silent  laughter  and  his  yellow 
beard  stirred  as  with  a  breeze  of  mirth. 

"You  don't  object  to  my  daughter's  presence?" 
he  queried,  his  eyes  twinkling  still,  but  with  the  for 
mality  with  which  he  might  have  addressed  the  min 
ister. 

Jerome  scowled  with  impotent  indignation.  Noth 
ing  escaped  him  ;  he  saw  that  Squire  Merritt  was 
laughing  at  him.  Again  the  pitiful  rebellion  at  his 
state  of  boyhood  seized  him.  He  would  have  torn 
out  of  the  room  had  it  not  been  for  his  dire  need. 
He  looked  straight  at  the  Squire,  and  nodded  stub 
bornly. 

Squire  Merritt  turned  to  his  little  daughter  and 
laid  a  tenderly  heavy  hand  on  her  smooth  curled 
head.  "  You'd  better  run  away  now  and  see  mother, 
Pretty,"  he  said.  "  Father  has  some  business  to  talk 
over  with  this  gentleman." 

Little  Lucina  gave  a  bewildered  look  up  in  her 
father's  face,  then  another  at  Jerome,  as  if  she 


92 


fancied  she  had  not  heard  aright,  then  she  went  out 
obediently,  like  the  good  and  gentle  little  girl  that 
she  was. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Jerome  began 
at  once.  Somehow,  that  other  child's  compassion  in 
the  midst  of  her  comfort  and  security  had  brought 
his  courage  up  to  the  point  of  attack  on  fate. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  about  the  mortgage,"  said 
Jerome. 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  with  quick  interest. 
"  The  mortgage  on  your  father's  place  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Doctor  Prescott  holds  it  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

"A  thousand  dollars."  Jerome  said  that  with  a 
gasp  of  horror  and  admiration  at  the  vastness  of  it. 
Sometimes  to  him  that  thousand  dollars  almost  rep 
resented  infinity,  and  seemed  more  than  the  stars  of 
heaven.  His  childish  brain,  which  had  scarcely  con 
templated  in  verity  more  than  a  shilling  at  a  time 
of  the  coin  of  the  realm,  reeled  at  a  thousand  dol 
lars. 

"  Well  ?"  observed  Squire  Merritt,  kindly  but  per 
plexedly.  He  wondered  vaguely  if  the  boy  had  come 
to  ask  him  to  pay  the  mortgage,  and  reflected  how 
little  ready  money  he  had  in  pocket,  for  Ebeii  Mer 
ritt  was  not  thrifty  with  his  income,  which  was  in 
deed  none  too  large,  and  was  always  in  debt  himself, 
though  always  sure  to  pay  in  time.  Chances  were,  if 
Squire  Merritt  had  had  the  thousand  dollars  to  hand 
that  morning,  he  might  have  thrust  it  upon  the  boy, 
with  no  further  parley,  taken  his  rod  and  line,  and 
gone  forth  to  his  fishing.  As  it  was,  he  waited  for 


93 


Jerome  to  proceed,  merely  adding  that  lie  was  sorry 
that  his  mother  did  not  own  the  place  clear. 

The  plan  that  the  boy  unfolded,  clumsily  but  stur 
dily  to  the  end,  he  had  thought  out  for  himself  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night  before.  The  Squire  lis 
tened.  "Who  planned  this  out?"  he  asked,  when 
Jerome  had  finished. 

"I  did." 

"  Who  helped  you  ?" 

"Nobody  did." 

"Nobody?" 

"No,  sir." 

Suddenly  Squire  Eben  Merritt  seated  himself  in 
the  chair  which  Jerome  had  vacated,  seized  the  boy, 
and  set  him  upon  his  knee.  Jerome  struggled  half 
in  wrath,  half  in  fear,  but  he  could  not  free  himself 
from  that  strong  grasp.  "  Sit  still,"  ordered  Squire 
Eben.  "  How  old  are  you,  my  boy  ?" 

"Goin'  on  twelve,  sir,"  gasped  Jerome. 

"  Only  four  years  older  than  Lucina.     Good  Lord!" 

The  Squire's  grasp  tightened  tenderly.  The  boy 
did  not  struggle  longer,  but  looked  up  with  a  wonder 
of  comprehensiveness  in  the  bearded  face  bent  kindly 
over  his.  "  He  looks  at  me  the  way  father  used  to," 
thought  Jerome. 

"  What  made  you  come  to  me,  my  boy?"  asked  the 
Squire,  presently.  "  Did  you  think  I  could  pay  the 
mortgage  for  you  ?" 

Then  Jerome  colored  furiously  and  threw  up  his 
head.  "No,  sir,"  said  he,  proudly. 

"Why,  then?" 

"I  came  because  you  are  a  justice  of  the  peace, 
and  know  what  law  is,  and — " 

"And  what  ?" 


94 


"I've  always  heard  you  were  pleasanter  -  spoken 
than  he  was." 

The  Squire  laughed.  "Pleasant  words  are  cheap 
coin/'  said  he.  "  I  wish  I  had  something  better  for 
your  sake,  child.  Now  let  me  see  what  it  is  you  pro 
pose.  That  wood-lot  of  your  father's,  you  say,  Doc 
tor  Prescott  has  offered  three  hundred  dollars  for." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  Squire  whistled.  "Didn't  your  father  think 
it  was  worth  more  than  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  he  didn't  think  he  could  get  any 
more.  He  said — " 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  that  a  poor  seller  was  the  slave  of  a  rich 
buyer ;  but  I  think — "  Jerome  hesitated.  He  was 
not  used  yet  to  expressing  his  independent  thought. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  I  think  it  works  both  ways,  and  the  poor  man  is 
the  slave  either  way,  whether  he  buys  or  sells,"  said 
the  boy,  half  defiantly,  half  timidly. 

"I  guess  you're  about  right,"  said  the  Squire,  look 
ing  at  him  curiously.  "Ever  hear  your  uncle  Ozias 
Lamb  say  anything  like  that  ?" 

"'No,  sir." 

"  Thought  it  yourself,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  let's  get  to  business  now,"  said  the  Squire. 
"What  you  want  is  this,  if  I  understand  it.  You 
want  Doctor  Prescott  to  buy  that  wood-lot  of  your 
father's  for  three  hundred  dollars,  or  whatever  over 
that  sum  he  will  agree  to,  and  you  don't  want  him 
to  pay  you  money  down,  but  give  you  his  note  for  it, 
with  interest  at  six  per  cent.,  for  as  long  a  term  as 
he  will.  You  did  not  say  give  you  a  note,  because 


95 


you  did  not  know  about  it,  but  that  is  what  you 
want/' 

Jerome  nodded  soberly.  "  I  know  father  paid  in 
terest  at  six  per  cent.,  and  it  was  sixty  dollars  a  year, 
and  I  know  it  would  be  eighteen  dollars  if  it  was 
three  hundred  dollars  instead  of  a  thousand.  I  fig 
ured  it  out  on  my  slate,"  he  said. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  Squire,  gravely.  "  Now 
you  think  that  will  bring  your  interest  down  to  forty- 
two  dollars  a  year,  and  maybe  you  can  manage  that ; 
and  if  you  cannot,  you  think  that  Doctor  Prescott 
will  pay  you  cash  down  for  the  wood-lot  ?" 

The  boy  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  an  arithmetical 
calculation.  He  bent  his  brows,  and  his  lips  moved. 
"  That  would  be  over  seven  years'  interest  money,  at 
forty-two  dollars  a  year,  anyway,"  he  said  at  length, 
looking  at  the  Squire  with  shrewdly  innocent  eyes. 

Suddenly  Eben  Merritt  burst  into  a  great  roar  of 
laughter,  and  struck  the  boy  a  kindly  slap  upon  his 
small  back. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry  \"  cried  .he,  "you've  struck  a  ' 
scheme  worthy  of  the  Jews.      But  you  need  good 
Christians  to  deal  with  !" 

Jerome  started  and  stared  at  him,  half  anxiously, 
half  resentfully.  "Ain't  it  right,  sir?"  he  stam 
mered. 

"  Oh,  your  scheme  is  right  enough ;  no  trouble 
about  that.  The  question  is  whether  Doctor  Pres 
cott  is  right." 

Eben  Merritt  burst  into  another  roar  of  laughter 
as  he  arose  and  set  the  boy  on  his  feet.  "  I  am  not 
laughing  at  you,  my  boy,"  he  said,  though  Jerome's 
wondering,  indignant  eyes  upon  his  face  were,  to  his 
thinking,  past  humorous. 


96 


Then  he  laid  a  hand  upon  each  of  the  boy's  little 
homespun  shoulders.  "  Go  and  see  Doctor  Prescott, 
and  tell  him  your  plan,  and — if  he  does  not  approve  of 
it,  corne  here  and  let  me  know,"  he  said,  and  seriously 
enough  to  suit  even  Jerome's  jealous  self-respect. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jerome. 

"  And,"  added  the  Squire,  "  you  had  better  go  a 
little  after  noon — you  will  be  more  likely  to  find  him 
at  home." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  go  out  alone  after  dark  ?" 
asked  the  Squire. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Jerome,  proudly. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  Squire,  "come  and  see  me 
this  evening,  and  tell  me  what  Doctor  Prescott  says." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Jerome,  and  bobbed  his  head, 
and  turned  to  go.  The  Squire  moved  before  him 
with  his  lounging  gait,  and  opened  the  door  for  him 
with  ceremony,  as  for  an  honored  guest. 

Out  in  the  south  entry,  with  her  back  against  the 
opposite  wall,  well  removed  from  the  south -room 
door,  that  she  might  not  hear  one  word  not  intended 
for  her  ears,  stood  Lucina  waiting,  with  one  little 
white  hand  clinched  tight,  as  over  a  treasure.  When 
her  father  came  out,  following  Jerome,  she  ran  for 
ward  to  him,  pulled  his  head  down  by  a  gentle  tug 
at*  his  long  beard,  and  whispered.  Squire  Eben 
laughed  and  smoothed  her  hair,  but  looked  at  her 
doubtfully.  "I  don't  know  about  it,  Pretty,"  he 
whispered  back. 

"Please,  father,"  she  whispered  again,  and  rubbed 
her  soft  cheek  against  his  great  arm,  and  he  laughed 
again,  and  looked  at  her  as  a  man  looks  at  the  apple 
of  his  eye. 


97 


"Well,"  said  he,  "do  as  you  like,  Pretty."  With 
that  the  little  Lucina  sprang  eagerly  forward  before 
Jerome,  who,  hardly  certain  whether  he  were  dis 
missed  or  not,  yet  eager  to  be  gone,  was  edging  tow 
ards  the  outer  door,  and  held  out  to  him  her  little 
hand  curved  into  a  sweet  hollow  like  a  cup  of  pearl, 
all  full  of  silver  coins. 

Jerome  looked  at  her,  gave  a  quick,  shamed  glance 
at  the  little  outstretched  hand,  colored  red,  and  be 
gan  backing  away. 

But  Lucina  pressed  forward,  thrusting  in  his  very 
face  her  little  precious  cup  of  treasure.  "Please 
take  this,  boy,"  said  she,  and  her  voice  rang  soft  and 
sweet  as  a  silver  flute.  "  It  is  money  I've  been  saving 
up  to  buy  a  parrot.  But  a  parrot  is  a  noisy  bird, 
mother  says,  and  maybe  I  could  not  love  it  as  well  as 
I  love  my  lamb,  and  so  its  feelings  would  be  hurt.  I 
don't  want  a  parrot,  after  all,  and  I  want  you  to  take 
this  and  buy  some  shoes."  So  said  little  Lucina 
Merritt,  making  her  sweet  assumption  of  selfishness 
to  cover  her  unselfishness,  for  the  noisy  parrot  was 
the  desire  of  her  heart,  and  to  her  father's  eyes  she 
bore  the  aspect  of  an  angel,  and  he  swallowed  a  great 
sob  of  mingled  admiration  and  awe  and  intensest 
love.  And  indeed  the  child's  face  as  she  stood  there 
had  about  it  something  celestial,  for  every  line  and 
every  curve  therein  were  as  the  written  words  of 
purest  compassion  ;  and  in  her  innocent  blue  eyes 
stood  self-forgetful  tears. 

Even  the  boy  Jerome,  with  the  pride  of  poverty  to 
which  he  had  been  born  and  bred,  like  a  bitter  savor 
in  his  heart,  stared  at  her  a  moment,  his  eyes  dilated, 
his  mouth  quivering,  and  half  advanced  his  hand  to 
take  the  gift  so  sweetly  offered.  Then  all  at  once 


the  full  tide  of  self  rushed  over  him  with  all  its  hard 
memories  and  resolutions.  His  eyes  gave  out  that 
black  flash  of  wrath,  which  the  poor  little  Lucina  had 
feared,  yet  braved  and  forgot  through  her  fond  pity, 
he  dashed  out  the  back  of  his  hand  so  roughly  against 
that  small  tender  one  that  all  the  silver  pieces  were 
jostled  out  to  the  floor,  and  rushed  out  of  the  door. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  made  an  indignant  exclama 
tion  and  one  threatening  stride  after  him,  then 
stopped,  and  caught  up  the  weeping  little  Lucina, 
and  sought  to  soothe  her  as  best  he  might. 

"  Never  mind,  Pretty  ;  never  mind,  Pretty,"  he 
said,  rubbing  his  rough  face  against  her  soft  one,  in  a 
way  which  was  used  to  make  her  laugh.  "  Father  '11 
buy  you  a  parrot  that  will  talk  the  roof  off." 

"I  don't — want  a  parrot,  father/7 sobbed  the  little 
girl.  "  I  want  the  boy  to  have  shoes." 

"  Summer  is  coming,  Pretty,"  said  Squire  Eben, 
laughingly  and  caressingly,  "and  a  boy  is  better  off 
without  shoes  than  with  them." 

"  He  won't — have  any — for  next  winter." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  shall.  I'll  fix  it  so  he  shall  earn  some 
for  himself  before  then  —  that's  the  way,  Pretty. 
Father  was  to  blame.  He  ought  to  have  known  bet 
ter  than  to  let  you  offer  money  to  him.  He's  a 
proud  child."  The  Squire  laughed.  "  Now,  don't 
cry  any  more,  Pretty.  Eun  away  and  play.  Father's 
going  fishing,  and  he'll  bring  you  home  some  pretty 
pink  fishes  for  your  supper.  Don't  cry  any  more, 
because  poor  father  can't  go  while  you  cry,  and  he 
has  been  delayed  a  long  time,  and  the  fishes  will 
have  eaten  their  dinner  and  won't  bite  if  he  doesn't 
hurry." 

Lucina,  who   was   docile   even   in   grief,  tried    to 


0!) 


laugh,  and  when  her  father  set  her  down  with  a 
great  kiss,  which  seemed  to  include  her  whole  rosy 
face  pressed  betwixt  his  two  hands,  picked  up  her 
rejected  silver  from  the  floor,  put  it  away  in  the  lit 
tle  box  in  which  she  kept  it,  and  sat  down  in  a  win 
dow  of  the  south  room  to  nurse  her  doll.  She  nod 
ded  and  laughed  dutifully  when  her  father,  going 
forth  at  last  to  the  still  pools  and  the  brook  courses, 
with  his  tackle  in  hand,  looked  back  and  nodded 
whimsically  at  her. 

However,  her  childish  heart  was  sore  beyond  im 
mediate  healing,  for  the  wounds  received  from  kind 
ness  spurned  and  turned  back  as  a  weapon  against 
one's  self  are  deep. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN"  every  household  which  includes  a  beloved  child 
there  is  apt  to  be  one  above  another,  who  acts  as  an 
intercessor  towards  furthering  its  little  plans  and 
ends.  Little  Lucina's  was  her  father.  Her  mother 
was  no  less  indulgent  in  effect,  but  she  was  anxious 
ly  solicitous  lest  too  much  concession  spoil  the  child, 
and  had  often  to  reconcile  a  permission  to  her  own 
conscience  before  giving  it,  even  in  trivial  matters. 

Therefore  little  Lucina,  having  in  mind  some  walk 
abroad  or  childish  treasure,  would  often  seek  her 
father,  and,  lifting  up  her  face  like  a  flower  against 
his  rough-coated  breast,  beg  him,  in  that  small,  wheed 
ling  voice  which  he  so  loved,  to  ask  her  mother  that 
she  might  go  or  have  ;  for  well  she  knew,  being  astute, 
though  so  small  and  innocent  and  gentle,  that  such  a 
measure  was  calculated  to  serve  her  ends,  and  allay 
her  mother's  scruples  through  a  shift  of  responsibility. 

However,  to-day,  since  her  father  was  away  fishing, 
Lucina  was  driven  to  seek  other  aid  in  the  carrying 
out  of  a  small  plan  which  she  had  formed  for  her  de 
lectation. 

Right  anxiously  the  child  watched  for  her  father  to 
come  home  to  the  noonday  dinner  ;  but  he  did  not 
come,  and  she  and  her  mother  ate  alone.  Then  she 
stole  away  up-stairs  to  her  little  dimity-hung  cham 
ber,  opening  out  of  her  parents'  and  facing  towards 
the  sun,  and  all  twinkling  and  swaying  with  little 


101 


white  tassels  on  curtains  and  covers  and  counterpane, 
in  the  draught,  as  she  opened  the  door.  Then  she 
went  down  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed  and  prayed, 
in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  which  would  seek  a 
Heavenly  Father  in  lieu  of  an  earthly  one,  for  all  her 
small  desires,  and  think  no  irreverence  :  "  Our  Father, 
who  art  in  heaven,  please  make  mother  let  me  go  to 
Aunt  Camilla's  this  afternoon.  Amen." 

Then  she  rose,  with  no  delay  for  lack  of  faith,  and 
went  straight  down  to  her  mother,  and  proffered  her 
request  timidly,  and  yet  with  a  confidence  as  of  one 
who  has  a  larger  voice  of  authority  at  her  back. 

"  Please,  mother,  may  I  go  over  to  Aunt  Camilla's 
this  afternoon  ?"  asked  little  Lucina. 

And  her  mother,  not  knowing  what  principle  of 
childish  faith  was  involved,  hesitated,  knitting  her 
small,  dark  face,  which  had  no  look  like  Lucina's, 
perplexedly. 

"I  don't  know,  child,"  said  she. 

"  Please,  mother  !" 

"I  am  afraid  you'll  trouble  your  aunt,  Lucina." 

"No,  I  won't,  mother  !  I'll  take  my  doll,  and  I'll 
play  with  her  real  quiet." 

"  I  am  afraid  your  aunt  Camilla  will  have  some 
thing  else  to  do." 

ee  She  can  do  it,  mother.  I  won't  trouble  her — I 
won't  speak  to  her — honest !  Please,  mother." 

"You  ought  to  sit  down  at  home  this  afternoon 
and  do  some  work,  Lucina." 

"I'll  take  over  my  garter  -  knitting,  mother,  and 
I'll  knit  ten  times  across." 

It  happened  at  length,  whether  through  effectual 
prayer,  or  such  skilful  fencing  against  weak  maternal 
odds,  that  the  little  Lucina,  all  fresh  frilled  and 


102 


curled,  with  her  silk  knitting-bag  dangling  at  her 
side,  and  her  doll  nestled  to  her  small  mother-shoul 
der,  stepping  with  dainty  primness  in  her  jostling 
starched  pantalets,  lifting  each  foot  carefully  lest 
she  hit  her  nice  morocco  toes  against  the  stones, 
went  up  the  road  to  her  aunt  Camilla's. 

Miss  Camilla  Merritt  lived  in  the  house  which  had 
belonged  to  her  grandfather,  called  the  "old  Merritt 
house"  to  distinguish  it  from  the  one  which  her 
father  had  built,  in  which  her  brother  Eben  lived. 
Both,  indeed,  were  old,  but  hers  was  venerable,  and 
claimed  that  respect  which  extreme  age,  even  in  in 
animate  things,  deserves.  And  in  a  way,  indeed,  this 
old  house  might  have  been  considered  raised  above 
the  mere  properties  of  wood  and  brick  and  plaster  by 
such  an  accumulation  of  old  memories  and  associa 
tions,  which  were  inseparable  from  its  walls,  to  some 
thing  nearly  sentient  and  human,  and  to  have  estab 
lished  in  itself  a  link  ^twixt  matter  and  mind. 

Never  had  any  paint  touched  its  outer  walls,  over 
lapped  with  silver-gray  shingles  like  scales  of  a  fossil 
fish.  The  door  and  the  great  pillared  portico  over  it 
were  painted  white,  as  they  had  been  from  the  first, 
and  that  was  all.  A  brick  walk,  sunken  in  mossy 
hollows,  led  up  to  the  front  door,  which  was  only  a 
few  feet  from  the  road,  the  front  yard  being  merely 
a  narrow  strip  with  great  poplars  set  therein.  Lucina 
had  always  had  a  suspicion,  which  she  confided  to 
no  one,  being  sensitive  as  to  ridicule  for  her  childish 
theories,  that  these  poplars  were  not  real  trees.  Even 
the  changing  of  the  leaves  did  not  disarm  her  sus 
picion.  Sometimes  she  dug  surreptitiously  around 
the  roots  with  a  pointed  stick  to  see  what  she  could 
discover  for  or  against  it,  and  always  with  a  fearful 


103 


excitement  of  daring,  lest  she  topple  the  tree  over, 
perchance,  and  destroy  herself  and  Aunt  Camilla  and 
the  house. 

To-day  Lucina  went  up  the  walk  between  the 
poplars,  recognizing  them  as  one  recognizes  friends 
oftentimes,  not  as  their  true  selves,  but  as  our  con 
ception  of  them,  and  knocked  one  little  ladylike 
knock  with  the  brass  knocker.  She  never  entered 
her  aunt  Camilla's  house  without  due  ceremony. 

Aunt  Camilla's  old  woman,  who  lived  with  her, 
and  performed  her  household  work  as  well  as  any 
young  one,  answered  the  knock  and  bade  her  enter. 
Lucina  followed  this  portly  old-woman  figure,  mov 
ing  with  a  stiff  wabble  of  black  bombazined  hips,  like 
some  old  domestic  fowl,  into  the  east  room,  which 
was  the  sitting-room. 

The  old  woman's  name  was  lost  to  memory,  inas 
much  as  she  had  been  known  simply  as  'Liza  ever 
since  her  early  childhood,  and  had  then  hailed  from 
the  town  farm,  with  her  parentage  a  doubtful 
matter. 

There  was  about  this  woman,  who  had  no  kith  nor 
kin,  nor  equal  friends,  nor  money,  nor  treasures,  nor 
name,  and  scarce  her  own  individuality  in  the  minds 
of  others,  a  strange  atmosphere  of  silence,  broken 
seldom  by  uncouth,  stammering  speech,  which  al 
ways  intimidated  the  little  Lucina.  She  had,  how 
ever,  a  way  of  expanding,  after  long  stares  at  her, 
into  sudden  broad  smiles  which  relieved  the  little 
girl's  apprehension ;  and,  too,  her  rusty  black  bom 
bazine  smelled  always  of  rich  cake — a  reassuring  per 
fume  to  one  who  knew  the  taste  of  it. 

Lucina's  aunt  Camilla  was  a  nervous  soul,  and 
liked  not  the  rattle  of  starched  cotton  about  the 


104 


house.  Her  old  serving-woman  must  go  always  clad 
in  woollen,  which  held  the  odors  of  cooking  long. 

Lucina  sat  down  in  a  little  rocking-chair,  hollowed 
out  like  a  nest  in  back  and  seat,  which  was  her  es 
pecial  resting-place,  and  ^Liza  went  out,  leaving  the 
rich,  fruity  odor  of  cake  behind  her,  saying  no  word, 
but  evidently  to  tell  her  mistress  of  her  guest.  There 
were  no  blinds  on  this  ancient  house,  but  there  were 
inside  shutters  in  fine  panel-work  at  all  the  windows. 
These  were  all  closed  except  at  the  east  windows. 
There  between  the  upper  panels  were  left  small 
square  apertures  which  framed  little  pictures  of  the 
blue  spring  sky,  slanted  across  with  blooming  peach 
boughs  ;  for  there  was  a  large  peach  orchard  on  the 
east  side  of  the  house.  Lucina  watched  these  little 
pictures,  athwart  which  occasionally  a  bird  flew  and 
raised  them  to  life.  She  held  her  doll  primly,  and 
her  little  work-bag  still  dangled  from  her  arm.  She 
would  not  begin  her  task  of  knitting  until  her  aunt 
appeared  and  her  visit  was  fairly  in  progress. 

Over  against  the  south  wall  stood  a  clock  as  tall  as 
a  giant  man,  and  giving  in  the  half-light  a  strong  im 
pression  of  the  presence  of  one,  to  an  eye  which  did 
not  front  it.  Lucina  often  turned  her  head  with  a 
start  and  looked,  to  be  sure  it  was  only  the  clock 
which  sent  that  long,  dark  streak  athwart  her  vision. 
The  clock  ticked  with  slow  and  solemn  majesty.  She 
was  sure  that  sixty  of  those  ticks  would  make  a  min 
ute,  and  sixty  times  the  sixty  an  hour,  if  she  could 
count  up  to  that  and  not  get  lost  in  such  a  sea  of 
numbers ;  but  she  could  not  tell  the  time  of  day  by 
the  clock  hands. 

Lucina  was  a  quick-witted  child,  but  seemed  in 
some  particulars  to  have  a  strange  lack  of  curiosity, 


105 


or  else  an  instinct  to  preserve  for  herself  an  imagina 
tion  instead  of  acquiring  knowledge.  She  was  either 
obstinately  or  involuntarily  ignorant  as  yet  of  the 
method  of  telling  time,  and  the  hands  of  the  clock 
were  held  before  its  face  of  mystery  for  concealment 
rather  than  revelation  to  her.  But  she  loved  to  sit 
and  watch  the  clock,  and  she  never  told  her  mother 
what  she  thought  about  it.  Directly  in  front  of  Lu 
cina,  as  she  sat  waiting,  hanging  over  the  mantel 
shelf  between  the  east  windows,  was  a  great  steel  en 
graving  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  Lucina 
looked  at  the  cluster  of  grave  men,  and  was  inno 
cently  proud  and  sure  that  her  father  was  much  finer- 
looking  than  any  one  of  them,  and,  moreover,  doubted 
irreverently  if  any  one  of  them  could  shoot  rabbits 
or  catch  fish,  or  do  anything  but  sign  his  name  with 
that  stiff  pen.  Lucina  was  capable  of  an  agony  of 
faithfulness  to  her  own,  but  of  loyalty  in  a  broad 
sense  she  knew  nothing,  and  never  would,  having  ini 
that  respect  the  typical  capacity  only  of  women. 

The  east-room  door  had  been  left  ajar.  Presently 
a  soft  whisper  of  silk  could  be  heard  afar  off ;  but 
before  that  even  a  delicate  breath  of  lavender  came 
floating  into  the  room.  Many  sweet  and  subtly  indi 
vidual  odors  seemed  to  dwell  in  this  old  house,  pre 
ceding  the  mortal  inhabitants  through  the  doors,  and 
lingering  behind  them  in  rooms  where  they  had 
stayed. 

Lucina  started  when  the  lavender  breath  entered 
the  room,  and  looked  up  as  if  at  a  ghostly  herald. 
She  toed  out  her  two  small  morocco-shod  feet  more 
particularly  upon  the  floor,  she  smoothed  down  her 
own  and  her  doll's  little  petticoats,  and  she  also 
made  herself  all  ready  to  rise  and  courtesy. 


106 


After  the  lavender  sweetness  came  the  whisper  of 
silk  flounces,  growing  louder  and  louder;  but  there 
was  no  sound  of  footsteps,  for  Aunt  Camilla  moved 
only  with  the  odor  and  rustle  of  a  flower.  No  one 
had  ever  heard  her  little  slippered  feet ;  even  her 
high  heels  never  tapped  the  thresholds.  She  had  a 
way  of  advancing  her  toes  first  and  making  the  next 
step  with  a  tilt,  so  soft  that  it  was  scarcely  a  break 
from  a  glide,  and  yet  clearing  the  floor  as  to  her 
slipper  heels. 

Lucina  knew  her  aunt  Camilla  was  coming  down 
the  stairs  by  the  rustling  of  her  silk  flounces  along 
the  rails  of  the  banisters,  like  harp-strings;  then 
there  was  a  cumulative  whisper  and  an  entrance. 

Lucina  rose,  holding  her  doll  like  a  dignified  little 
mother,  and  dropped  a  courtesy. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  said  Aunt  Camilla. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  returned  Lucina. 

"How  do  you  do  ?"  asked  Aunt  Camilla. 

"  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,"  replied  Lucina. 

"  How  is  your  mother  ?" 

"  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you." 

"  Is  your  father  well  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  I  thank  you." 

During  this  dialogue  Aunt  Camilla  was  moving 
gently  forward  upon  her  niece.  When  she  reached 
her  she  stooped,  or  rather  drooped — for  stooping  im 
plies  a  bend  of  bone  and  muscle,  and  her  graceful 
body  seemed  to  be  held  together  by  integuments  like 
long  willow  leaves — and  kissed  her  with  a  light  touch 
of  cool,  delicate  lips.  Aunt  Camilla's  slender  arms 
in  their  pointed  lilac  sleeves  and  lace  undersleeves 
waved  forward  as  with  a  vague  caressing  intent.  Soft 
locks  of  hair  and  frilling  laces  in  her  cap  and  bosom 


107 


hung  forward  like  leaves  on  a  swaying  bough,  and 
tickled  Lucina's  face,  half  smothered  in  the  old 
lavender  fragrance. 

Lucina  colored  innocently  and  sweetly  when  her 
aunt  kissed  her,  and  afterwards  looked  up  at  her  with 
sincerest  love  and  admiration  and  delight. 

Camilla  Merritt  was  far  from  young,  being  much 
older  than  her  brother,  Lucina's  father  ;  but  she  was 
old  ^s  a  poem  or  an  angel  might  be,  with  the  lovely 
meaning  of  her  still  uppermost  and  most  evident. 
Camilla  in  her  youth  had  been  of  a  rare  and  delicate 
beauty,  which  had  given  her  fame  throughout  the 
country-side,  and  she  held  the  best  of  it  still,  as  one 
holds  jewels  in  a  worn  casket,  and  as  a  poem  written 
in  obsolete  language  contains  still  its  first  grace  of 
thought.  Camilla's  soft  and  slender  body  had  none 
of  those  stiff,  distorted  lines  which  come  from  resist 
ance  to  the  forced  attitudes  of  life.  Her  body  and 
her  soul  had  been  amenable  to  all  discipline.  She 
had  leaned  sweetly  against  her  crosses,  instead  of 
straining  away  from  them  with  fierce  cramps  and 
agonies  of  resistance.  In  every  motion  she  had  the 
freedom  of  utter  yielding,  which  surpasses  the  free 
dom  of  action.  Camilla's  graduated  flounces  of  lilac 
silk,  slightly  faded,  having  over  it  a  little  spraying 
mist  of  gray,  trimmed  her  full  skirt  to  her  slender 
waist,  girdled  with  a  narrow  ribbon  fastened  with  a 
little  clasp  set  with  amethysts.  A  great  amethyst 
brooch  pinned  the  lace  at  her  throat.  She  wore  a 
lace  cap,  and  over  that,  flung  loosely,  draping  her 
shoulders  and  shading  her  face  with  its  soft  mesh,  a 
great  shawl  or  veil  of  fine  white  lace  wrought  with 
sprigs.  Camilla's  delicately  spare  cheeks  were  softly 
pink,  with  that  elderly  bloom  which  lacks  the  warm 


108 


.dazzle  of  youth,  yet  has  its  own  late  beauty.  Her 
eyes  were  blue  and  clear  as  a  child's,  and  as  full  of 
innocent  dreams — only  of  the  past  instead  of  the 
I  future.  Her  blond  hair,  which  in  turning  gray  had 
!  got  a  creamy  instead  of  a  silvery  lustre,  like  her  old 
lace,  was  looped  softly  and  disposed  in  half-curls  over 
her  ears.  When  she  smiled  it  was  with  the  grace 
and  fine  dignity  of  ineffable  ladyhood,  and  yet  with 
the  soft  ignorance,  though  none  of  the  abandon*,  of' 
childhood.  Camilla  was  like  a  child  whose  formal 
code  and  manners  of  life  had  been  fully  prescribed 
and  learned,  but  whose  vital  copy  had  not  been  quite 
set. 

Lucina  loved  her  aunt  Camilla  with  a  strange  sense 
of  comradeship,  and  yet  with  awe.  "  If  you  can  ever 
be  as  much  of  a  lady  as  your  aunt  Camilla,  I  shall  be 
glad,"  her  mother  often  told  her.  Camilla  wras  to 
Lucina  the  personification  of  the  gentle  and  the^gen- 
teel.  She  was  her  ideal,  the  model  upon  which  she 
was  to  form  herself. 

Camilla  was  so  unceasingly  punctilious  in  all  the 
finer  details  of  living  that  all  who  infringed  upon 
them  felt  her  mere  presence  a  reproach.  Children 
were  never  rough  or  loud  -  voiced  or  naughty  when 
Miss  Camilla  was  near,  though  she  never  admonished 
otherwise  than  by  example.  As  for  little  Lucina,  she 
would  have  felt  shamed  for  life  had  her  aunt  Camilla 
caught  her  toeing  in,  or  stooping,  or  leaving  the 
" ma'am"  off  from  her  yes  and  no. 

Camilla,  this  afternoon,  did  what  Lucina  had  fond 
ly  hoped  she  might  do — proposed  that  they  should 
sit  out  in  the  arbor  in  the  garden.  "  I  think  it  is 
warm  enough/'  she  said  ;  and  Lucina  assented  with 
tempered  delight. 


109 


It  was  a  very  warm  afternoon.  Spring  had  taken, 
as  she  will  sometimes  do  in  May,  being  apparently 
weary  of  slow  advances,  a  sadden  flight  into  summer, 
with  a  wild  bursting  of  buds  and  a  great  clamor  of 
wings  and  songs. 

Miss  Camilla  got  a  yellow  Canton  crepe  shawl,  that 
was  redolent  of  sandalwood,  out  of  a  closet,  but  she 
did  not  put  it  over  her  shoulders,  the  outdoor  air  was 
so  soft.  She  needed  nothing  but  her  lace  mantle 
over  her  head,  which  made  her  look  like  a  bride  of 
some  old  spring.  Lucina  followed  her  through  the 
hall,  out  of  the  back  door,  which  had  a  trellis  and  a 
grape-vine  over  it,  into  the  garden.  The  garden  was 
large,  and  laid  out  primly  in  box  -  bordered  beds. 
There  were  even  trees  of  box  on  certain  corners,  and 
it  looked  as  if  the  box  would  in  time  quite  choke  out 
the  flowers.  Lucina,  who  was  given  to  sweet  and 
secret  fancies,  would  often  sit  with  wide  blue  eyes  of 
contemplation  upon  the  garden,  and  discover  in  the 
box  a  sprawling,  many -armed  green  monster,  bent 
upon  strangling  out  the  lives  of  the  flowers  in  their 
beds. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  the  box  trimmed,  Aunt 
Camilla  ?"  she  would  venture  to  inquire  at  such 
times  ;  and  her  aunt  Camilla,  looking  gently  askance 
at  the  flush  of  excitement,  which  she  did  not  under 
stand,  upon  her  niece's  cheek,  would  reply  : 

"The  box  has  always  been  there,  my  dear." 

Long  existence  proved  always  the  sacredness  of  a 
law  to  Miss  Camilla.  She  was  a  conservative  to  the 
bone. 

The  arbor  where  the  two  sat  that  afternoon  was  of 
the  kind  one  sees  in  old  prints  where  lovers  sit  in 
chaste  embrace  under  a  green  arch  of  eglantine. 


110 


However,  in  Miss  Camilla's  arbor  were  no  lovers,  and 
instead  of  eglantine  were  a  honeysuckle  and  a  climb 
ing  rose.  The  rose  was  not  yet  in  bloom,  and  the 
honeysuckle's  red  trumpets  were  not  blown — their 
parts  in  the  symphony  of  the  spring  were  farther  on  ; 
over  the  arbor  there  was  only  a  delicate  prickling  of 
new  leaves,  which  cast  a  lace-like  shadow  underneath. 
A  bench  ran  around  the  three  closed  sides  of  the 
arbor,  and  upon  the  bench  sat  Lucina  and  her  aunt 
Camilla,  in  her  spread  of  lilac  flounces.  Camilla 
held  in  her  lap  a  little  portfolio  of  papier-mache,  and 
wrote  with  a  little  gold  pencil  on  sheets  of  gilt-edged 
paper.  Camilla  always  wrote  when  she  sat  in  the 
arbor,  but  nobody  ever  knew  what.  She  always 
carried  the  finely  written  sheets  into  the  house,  and 
nobody  knew  where  she  put  them  afterwards.  Ca 
milla's  long,  thin  fingers,  smooth  and  white  as  ivory, 
sparkled  dully  with  old  rings.  Some  large  ame 
thysts  in  fine  gold  settings  she  wore,  one  great  yellow 
pearl,  a  mourning-ring  of  hair  in  a  circlet  of  pearls 
for  tears,  and  some  diamond  bands  in  silver,  which 
gave  out  cold  white  lights  only  as  her  hands  moved 
across  the  gilt-edged  paper. 

As  for  Lucina,  she  had  set  up  her  doll  primly  in 
a  corner  of  the  arbor,  and  was  knitting  her  stent. 
It  might  have  seemed  difficult  to  understand  what 
the  child  found  to  enjoy  in  this  quiet  entertainment, 
but  in  childhood  all  situations  which  appeal  to  the 
imagination  give  enjoyment,  and  most  situations 
which  break  the  routine  of  daily  life  do  so  appeal. 
Then,  too,  Camilla's  quiet  persistence  in  her  own 
employment  gave  a  delightful  sense  of  equality  and 
dignity  to  the  child.  She  would  not  have  liked  it 
half  as  well  had  her  aunt  stooped  to  entertain  her 


"  LUCINA   KNITTED   UNTIL   HER  STENT  WAS  FINISHED" 


Ill 


and  brought  out  toys  and  games  for  her  amusement. 
However,  there  was  entertainment  to  come,  to  which 
she  looked  forward  with  gratification,  as  that  placed 
her  firmly  on  the  footing  of  an  honored  guest.  The 
minister's  daughter  or  the  doctor's  wife  could  not  be 
treated  better  or  with  more  courtesy. 

Aunt  Camilla  wrote  with  pensive  pauses  of  reflec 
tion,  and  Lucina  knitted  until  her  stent  was  finished. 
Then  she  folded  up  the  garter  neatly,  quilted  in  the 
needles  as  she  had  been  taught,  and  placed  it  in  her 
little  bag.  Then  she  took  up  her  doll  protectingly 
and  soothingly,  and  held  her  in  her  lap,  with  the 
great  china  head  against  her  small  bosom.  Lucina's 
doll  was  very  large,  and  finely  attired  in  stiff  book- 
muslin  and  pink  ribbons.  She  wore  also  pink  mo 
rocco  shoes  on  her  feet,  which  stood  out  strangely 
at  sharp  right  angles.  Lucina  sometimes  eyed  her 
doll-baby's  feet  uncomfortably.  "I  guess  she  will 
outgrow  it,"  she  told  herself,  with  innocent  maternal 
hypocrisy  early  developed. 

When  Lucina  laid  aside  her  work  and  began  nurs 
ing  her  doll  her  aunt  looked  up  from  her  writing. 
"  Are  you  enjoying  yourself,  dear  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Would  you  like  to  run  about  the  garden  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  ma'am  ;  I  will  sit  here  and  hold 
my  doll.  It  is  time  for  her  nap.  I  will  hold  her 
till  she  goes  to  sleep." 

"Then  you  can  run  about  a  little," suggested  Miss 
Camilla,  gravely,  without  a  smile.  She  respected 
Lucina's  doll,  as  she  might  have  her  baby,  and  the 
child's  heart  leaped  up  with  gratitude.  An  older 
soul  which  needs  not  to  make  believe  to  re-enter 
childhood  is  a  true  comrade  for  a  child. 


112 


"Yes,  ma'am/'  replied  Lucina.  "I  will  lay  her 
down  on  the  bench  here  when  she  falls  asleep." 

"  You  can  cover  her  up  with  my  shawl/'  said  Miss 
Camilla,  gravely  still,  and  naturally.  Indeed,  to  her 
a  child  with  a  doll  was  as  much  a  part  and  parcel  of 
the  natural  order  of  things  as  a  mother  with  an  in 
fant.  Outside  all  of  it  herself,  she  comprehended 
and  admitted  it  with  the  impartiality  of  an  observer. 
"Then  you  can  run  in  the  garden," she  added,  "and 
pick  a  bouquet  if  you  wish.  There  is  not  much  in 
bloom  now  but  the  heart's  -  ease  and  the  flowering 
almond  and  the  daffodils,  but  you  can  make  a  bou 
quet  of  them  to  take  home  to  your  mother." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'arn,"  said  Lucina. 

However,  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  take  advantage 
of  her  aunt's  permission.  She  sat  quietly  in  the 
warm  and  pleasant  arbor,  holding  her  doll -baby, 
with  the  afternoon  sun  sifting  through  the  young 
leaves,  and  making  over  them  a  shifting  dapple  like 
golden  water,  and  felt  no  inclination  to  stir.  The 
spring  languor  was  over  even  her  young  limbs  ;  the 
sweet  twitter  of  birds,  the  gathering  bird-like  nutter 
of  leaves  before  a  soft  swell  of  air,  the  rustle  of  her 
aunt's  gilt  -  edged  paper,  an  occasional  hiss  of  her 
silken  flounces,  grew  dim  and  confused.  Lucina,  as 
well  as  her  doll,  fell  asleep,  leaning  her  pretty  head 
against  the  arbor  trellis-work.  Camilla  did  not  dis 
turb  her;  she  had  never  in  her  life  disturbed  the 
peace  or  the  slumber  of  any  soul.  She  only  gazed 
at  her  now  and  then,  with  gentle,  half -abstracted 
affection,  then  wrote  again. 

Presently,  stepping  with  that  subtlest  silence  of 
motion  through  the  quiet  garden,  came  a  great  yel 
low  cat.  She  rubbed  against  Miss  Camilla's  knees 


113 


with  that  luxurious  purr  of  love  and  comfort  which 
is  itself  a  completest  slumber  song,  then  made  a 
noiseless  leap  to  a  sunny  corner  of  the  bench,  and 
settled  herself  there  in  a  yellow  coil  of  sleep.  Present 
ly  there  came  another,  and  another,  and  another  still 
— all  great  cats,  and  all  yellow,  marked  in  splendid 
tiger  stripes,  with  eyes  like  topaz — until  there  were 
four  of  them,  all  asleep  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
arbor.  Miss  Camilla's  yellow  cats  were  of  a  famous 
breed,  well  represented  in  the  village  ;  but  she  had 
these  four,  which  were  marvels  of  beauty. 

Another  hour  wore  on.  Miss  Camilla  still  wrote, 
and  Lucina  and  the  yellow  cats  slept.  Then  it  was 
four  o'clock,  and  time  for  the  entertainment  to  which 
Lucina  had  looked  forward. 

There  was  a  heavy  footstep  on  the  garden  walk 
and  a  rustling  among  the  box  borders.  Then  old 
'Liza  loomed  up  in  the  arbor  door,  darkening  out 
the  light.  Little  Lucina  stirred  and  woke,  yet  did 
not  know  she  woke,  not  knowing  she  had  slept.  To 
her  thinking  she  had  sat  all  this  time  with  her  eyes 
wide  open,  and  the  sight  of  her  aunt  Camilla  writing 
and  the  leaf  shadows  on  the  arbor  floor  had  never 
left  them.  She  saw  the  yellow  cats  with  some  sur 
prise,  but  cats  can  steal  in  quietly  when  one's  eyes 
are  turned.  Had  Lucina  dreamed  she  had  fallen 
asleep  when  an  honored  guest  of  her  lady  aunt,  she 
would  have  been  ready  to  sink  with  shame.  Blind 
ness  to  one's  innocent  shortcomings  seems  sometimes 
a  special  mercy  of  Providence. 

Lucina  straightened  herself  with  a  flushed  smile, 
gave  just  one  glance  at  the  great  tray  which  old 
'Liza  bore  before  her ;  then  looked  away  again,  being 
fully  alive  to  the  sense  that  it  is  not  polite  nor  lady- 


114 


like  to  act  as  if  you  thought  much  of  your  eating 
and  drinking. 

Old  'Liza  set  the  tray  on  a  little  table  in  the  midst 
of  the  arbor,  and  immediately  odors,  at  once  dainty 
and  delicate,  spicy,  fruity,  and  aromatically  sooth 
ing,  diffused  themselves  about.  The  four  yellow 
cats  stirred;  they  yawned,  and  stretched  luxurious 
ly  ;  then,  suddenly  fully  awake  to  the  meaning  of 
those  savory  scents  which  had  disturbed  their  slum 
bers,  sat  upright  with  eager  jewel  eyes  upon  the  tray. 

"  Take  the  cats  away,  'Liza/7  said  Miss  Camilla. 

Old  'Liza  advanced  grinning  upon  the  cats,  gath 
ered  them  up,  two  under  each  arm,  and  bore  them 
away,  moving  out  of  sight  between  the  box  borders 
like  some  queer  monster,  with  her  wide  humping 
flanks  of  black  bombazine  enhanced  by  four  angrily 
waving  yellow  cat  tails,  which  gave  an  effect  of  gro 
tesque  wrath  to  the  retreat. 

Lucina  looked,  in  spite  of  her  manners,  at  the  tray 
when  it  was  on  the  table  before  her  very  face  and 
eyes.  It  was  covered  with  a  napkin  of  finest  dam 
ask,  whose  flower  pattern  glistened  like  frostwork, 
and  upon  it  were  ranged  little  cups  and  saucers  of 
pink  china  as  thin  and  transparent  as  shells,  a  pink 
sugar-bowl  to  match,  a  small  silver  teapot  under  a 
satin  cozy,  a  silver  cream-jug,  a  plate  of  delicate 
bread-and-butter,  and  one  of  fruit-cake. 

"  You  will  have  a  cup  of  tea,  will  you  not,  dear  ?" 
said  Aunt  Camilla. 

"  If  you  please ;  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Lu 
cina,  striving  to  look  decorously  pleased  and  not  too 
delighted  at  the  prospect  of  the  fruit-cake.  Tea  and 
bread-and-butter  presented  small  attractions  to  her, 
but  she  did  love  old  'Liza's  fruit-cake,  made  after  a 


115 


famous  receipt  which  had  been  in  the  Merritt  family 
for  generations. 

Miss  Camilla  removed  the  cozy  and  began  pouring 
the  tea.  Lucina  took  a  napkin,  being  so  bidden, 
spread  it  daintily  over  her  lap,  and  tucked  a  corner 
in  her  neck.  The  feast  was  about  to  commence, 
when  a  loud,  jovial  voice  was  heard  in  the  direction 
of  the  house  : 

"  Camilla  !    Camilla  !    Lucina,  where  are  you  all  ?" 

"  That's  father  !"  cried  Lucina,  brightening,  and 
immediately  Squire  Eben  Merritt  came  striding  down 
between  the  box-ridges,  and  Jerome  Edwards  was  at 
his  heels. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  sister?"  Squire  Eben  cried, 
merrily  ;  and  in  the  same  breath,  "  I  have  brought 
another  guest  to  your  tea-drinking,  sister." 

Jerome  bobbed  his  head,  half  with  defiant  dignity, 
half  in  utter  shyness  and  confusion  at  the  sight  of 
this  fine,  genteel  lady  and  her  wonderful  tea  equi 
page.  But  Miss  Camilla,  having  welcomed  her  brother 
with  gentle  warmth,  greeted  this  little  poor  Jerome 
with  as  sweet  a  courtesy  as  if  he  had  been  the  Gov 
ernor,  and  bade  Lucina  run  to  the  house  and  ask 
'Liza  to  fetch  two  more  cups  and  saucers  and  two 
plates,  and  motioned  both  her  guests  to  be  seated  on 
the  arbor  bench. 

Squire  Eben  laughed,  and  glanced  at  his  great 
mud-splashed  boots,  his  buckskin,  his  fishing-tackle, 
and  a  fine  string  of  spotted  trout  which  he  bore.  "A 
pretty  knight  for  a  lady's  bower  I  am  I"  said  he. 

"  A  lady  never  judges  a  knight  by  his  outward 
guise/'  returned  Camilla,  with  soft  pleasantry.  She 
adored  her  brother. 

Eben  laughed,  deposited  his  fish  and  tackle  on  the 


116 


bench  near  the  door,  and  flung  himself  down  opposite 
them,  at  a  respectful  distance  from  his  sister's  silken 
flounces,  with  a  sigh  of  comfort.  "  I  have  had  a 
hard  tramp,  and  would  like  a  cup  of  your  tea/'  he 
admitted.  "I've  been  lucky,  though.  'Twas  a  fine 
day  for  trout,  though  I  would  not  have  thought  it. 
I  will  leave  you  some  for  your  breakfast,  sister;  have 
'Liza  fry  them  brown  in  Indian  meal." 

Then,  following  Miss  Camilla's  remonstrating 
glance,  he  saw  little  Jerome  Edwards  standing  in 
the  arbor  door,  through  which  his  entrance  was 
blocked  by  the  Squire's  great  legs  and  his  fishing- 
tackle,  with  the  air  of  an  insulted  ambassador  who  is 
half  minded  to  return  to  his  own  country. 

The  Squire  made  room  for  him  to  pass  with  a 
hearty  laugh.  "Bless  you,  my  boy  !"  said  he,  "I'm 
barring  out  the  guest  I  invited  myself,  am  I  ?  Walk 
in — walk  in  and  sit  down." 

Jerome,  half  melted  by  the  Squire's  genial  humor, 
half  disposed  still  to  be  stiffly  resentful,  hesitated 
a  second  ;  but  Miss  Camilla  also,  for  the  second  time, 
invited  him  to  enter,  with  her  gentle  ceremony,  which 
was  the  subtlest  flattery  he  had  ever  known,  inas 
much  as  it  seemed  to  set  him  firmly  in  his  own  esteem 
above  his  poor  estate  of  boyhood;  and  he  entered, 
and  seated  himself  in  the  place  indicated,  at  his 
hostess's  right  hand,  near  the  little  tea-table. 

Jerome,  hungry  boy  as  he  was,  having  the  spicy 
richness  of  that  wonderful  fruit-cake  in  his  nostrils, 
noted  even  before  that  the  lavender  scent  of  Miss 
Camilla's  garments,  which  seemed,  like  a  subtle  fra 
grance  of  individuality  and  life  itself,  to  enter  his 
thoughts  rather  than  his  senses.  The  boy,  drawn 
within  this  atmosphere  of  virgin  superiority  and  gen- 


117 


tleness,  felt  all  his  defiance  and  antagonism  towards 
his  newly  discovered  pride  of  life  shame  him. 

The  great  and  just  bitterness  of  wrath  against  all 
selfish  holders  of  riches  that  was  beginning  to  tincture 
his  whole  soul  was  sweetened  for  the  time  by  the  prox 
imity  of  this  sweet  woman  in  her  silks  and  laces  and 
jewels.  Not  reasoning  it  out  in  the  least,  nor  recog 
nizing  his  own  mental  attitude,  it  was  to  him  as  if 
this  graceful  creature  had  been  so  endowed  by  God 
with  her  rich  apparel  and  fair  surroundings  that  she 
was  as  much  beyond  question  and  envy  as  a  lily  of  the 
field.  He  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes  to  her  face,  but 
sat  at  her  side,  at  once  elevated  and  subdued  by  her 
gentle  politeness  and  condescension.  When  Lucina 
returned,  and  'Liza  followed  with  the  extra  cups  and 
plates,  and  the  tea  began,  he  accepted  what  was  prof 
fered  him,  and  ate  and  drank  with  manners  as  mild 
and  grateful  as  Lucina's.  She  could  scarcely  taste 
the  full  savor  of  her  fruit-cake,  after  all,  so  occupied 
she  was  in  furtively  watching  this  strange  boy.  Her 
blue  eyes  were  big  with  surprise.  Why  should  he 
take  Aunt  Camilla's  cake,  and  even  her  bread-and- 
butter,  when  he  would  not  touch  the  gingerbread  she 
had  offered  him,  nor  the  money  to  buy  shoes  ?  This 
young  Lucina  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  proud  soul 
accepts  from  courtesy  what  it  will  not  take  from  love 
or  pity. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THAT  day  had  been  one  of  those  surprises  of  life 
which  ever  dwell  with  one.  Jerome  in  it  had  dis 
covered  not  only  a  new  self,  but  new  ways.  He  had 
struck  paths  at  right  angles  to  all  he  had  followed 
before.  They  might  finally  verge  into  the  old  again, 
but  for  that  day  he  saw  strange  prospects.  Not  the 
least  strange  of  them  was  this  tea  -  drinking  with 
the  Squire  and  the  Squire's  sister  and  the  Squire's 
daughter  in  the  arbor.  He  found  it  harder  to  rec 
oncile  that  with  his  past  and  himself  than  anything 
else.  So  bewildered  was  he,  drinking  tea  and  eating 
cake,  with  the  spread  of  Miss  Camilla's  lilac  flounces 
brushing  his  knee,  and  her  soft  voice  now  and  then  in 
his  ear,  that  he  strove  to  remember  how  he  happened 
to  be  there  at  all,  and  that  shock  of  strangeness  which 
obliterates  the  past  wellnigh  paralyzed  Jiis  memory. 

Yet  it  had  been  simple  enough,  as  paths  to  strange 
conclusions  always  are.  He  had  returned  home  from 
Squire  Eben's  that  morning,  changed  his  clothes,  and 
resumed  his  work  in  the  garden. 

Elmira  had  questioned  him,  but  he  gave  her  no  in 
formation.  He  had  an  instinct,  which  had  been  born 
in  him,  of  secrecy  towards  womankind.  Nobody  had 
ever  told  him  that  women  were  not  trustworthy  with 
respect  to  confidences  ;  he  had  never  found  it  so 
from  observation  ;  he  simply  agreed  within  himself 
that  he  had  better  not  confide  any  but  fully  matured 


119 


plans,  and  no  plans  which  should  be  kept  secret,  to 
a  woman.  He  had,  however,  besides  this  caution, 
a  generous  resolution  not  to  worry  Elmira  or  his 
mother  about  it  until  he  knew.  "Wait  till  I  find 
out ;  I  don't  know  myself/7  he  told  Elmira. 

"  Don't  you  know  where  you've  been  ?  You  can 
tell  us  that,"  she  persisted,  in  her  sweet,  querulous 
treble.  She  pulled  at  his  jacket  sleeve  with  her  lit 
tle  thin,  coaxing  hand,  but  Jerome  was  obdurate. 
He  twitched  his  jacket  sleeve  away. 

"  I  sha'n't  tell  you  one  thing,  and  there  is  no  use  in 
your  teasin',"  he  said,  peremptorily,  and  she  yielded. 

Elmira  reported  that  their  mother  was  sitting  still 
in  her  rocking-chair,  with  her  head  leaning  back  and 
her  eyes  shut.  "  She  seems  all  beat  out,"  she  said, 
pitifully ;  "she  don't  tell  me  to  do  a  thing." 

The  two  tiptoed  across  the  entry  and  stood  in  the 
kitchen  door,  looking  at  poor  Ann.  She  sat  quite 
still,  as  Elmira  had  said,  her  head  tipped  back,  her 
eyes  closed,  and  her  mouth  slightly  parted.  Her  lit 
tle  bony  hands  lay  in  her  lap,  with  the  fingers  limp 
in  utter  nerveless  relaxation,  but  she  was  not  asleep. 
She  opened  her  eyes  when  her  children  came  to  the 
door,  but  she  did  not  speak  nor  turn  her  head. 
Presently  her  eyes  closed  again. 

Jerome  pulled  Elmira  back  into  the  parlor.  "  You 
must  go  ahead  and  get  the  dinner,  and  make  her 
some  gruel,  and  not  ask  her  a  question,  and  not 
bother  her  about  anything,"  he  whispered,  sternly. 
"  She's  resting  ;  she'll  die  if  she  don't.  It's  awful 
for  her.  It's  bad  'nough  for  us,  but  we  don't  know 
what  'tis  for  her." 

Elmira  assented,  with  wide,  scared,  piteous  eyes  on 
her  brother. 


120 


"  Go  now  and  get  the  dinner/'  said  Jerome. 

"  There's  lots  left  over  from  yesterday/'  said  El- 
mira,  forlornly.  "Shall  we  have  anything  after 
that's  gone  ?" 

"  Have  enough  while  I've  got  two  hands/'  returned 
Jerome,  gruffly.  "  Get  some  potatoes  and  boil  'em, 
and  have  some  of  that  cold  meat,  and  make  mother 
the  gruel/' 

Elmira  obeyed,  finding  a  certain  comfort  in  that. 
Indeed,  she  belonged  assuredly  to  that  purely  femi 
nine  order  of  things  which  gains  perhaps  its  best 
strength  through  obedience.  Give  Elmira  a  power 
over  her,  and  she  would  never  quite  fall. 

Elmira  went  about  getting  dinner,  tiptoeing  around 
her  mother,  who  still  sat  sunken  in  her  strange 
apathy  of  melancholy  or  exhaustion,  it  was  difficult 
to  tell  which,  while  Jerome  spaded  and  dug  in  the 
garden,  in  the  fury  of  zeal  which  he  had  inherited 
from  her. 

Elmira  had  dinner  ready  early,  and  called  Jerome. 
When  he  went  in  he  found  her  trying  to  induce  her 
mother  to  swallow  a  bowl  of  gruel.  "  Won't  you 
take  it,  mother  ?"  she  was  pleading,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  ;  but  her  mother  only  lifted  one  hand  feebly  and 
motioned  it  away ;  she  would  not  raise  her  head  or 
open  her  eyes. 

"  Give  me  that  bowl,"  said  Jerome.  He  held  it 
before  his  mother,  and  slipped  one  hand  behind  her 
neck,  constraining  her  gently  to  raise  her  head. 
"  Here,  mother,"  said  he,  "  here's  your  gruel." 

She  resisted  faintly,  and  shook  her  weak,  repelling 
hand  again.  "Sit  up, mother,  and  drink  your  gruel," 
said  Jerome,  and  his  mother's  eyes  flew  wide  open  at 
that,  and  stared  up  in  his  face  with  eager  inquiry ; 


121 


for  again  she  had  that  wild  surmise  that  her  lost 
husband  spoke  to  her. 

"  Drink  it,  mother/'  said  Jerome,  again  meeting 
her  half-delirious  gaze  fully  ;  and  Ann  seemed  to  see 
his  father  looking  at  her  from  his  son's  eyes,  through 
his  immortality  after  the  flesh.  She  raised  herself  at 
once,  held  out  her  trembling  hands  for  the  bowl,  and 
drank  the  gruel  to  the  last  drop.  Then  she  gave  the 
empty  bowl  to  Jerome,  leaned  her  head  back,  and 
closed  her  eyes  again. 

After  dinner  Jerome  changed  his  clothes  for  his 
poor  best  for  the  second  time,  and  set  forth  to  Doc 
tor  Prescott's.  Elmira's  wistful  eyes  followed  him 
as  he  went  out,  but  he  said  not  a  word.  He  threw 
back  his  shoulders  and  stepped  out  with  as  much 
boldness  of  carriage  as  ever. 

"How  smart  he  is!"  Elmira  thought,  watching 
him  from  the  window. 

However,  it  was  true  that  his  heart  quaked  within 
him,  supported  as  he  was  by  the  advice  and  encour 
agement  of  Squire  Merritt.  Doctor  Prescott  had 
been  the  awe  and  the  terror  of  all  his  childhood. 
Nobody  knew  how  in  his  childish  illnesses — luckily 
not  many — he  had  dreaded  and  resented  the  advent 
of  this  great  man,  who  represented  to  him  absolute 
monarchy,  if  not  despotism.  He  never  demurred  at 
his  noxious  doses,  but  swallowed  them  at  a  gulp,  with 
no  sweet  after-morsel  as  an  inducement,  yet,  strange 
ly  enough,  never  from  actual  submissiveness,  but 
rather  from  that  fierce  scorn  and  pride  of  utter  help 
lessness  which  can  maintain  a  certain  defiance  to 
authority  by  depriving  it  of  that  victory  which  comes 
only  from  opposition. 

Jerome  swallowed  castor-oil,  rhubarb,  and  the  rest 


122 


with  a  glare  of  fierce  eyes  over  spoon  and  a  trium 
phant  understanding  with  himself  that  he  took  it 
because  he  chose,  and  not  because  the  doctor  made 
him.  It  was  odd,  but  Doctor  Prescott  seemed  to 
have  some  intuition  of  the  boy's  mental  attitude,  for, 
in  spite  of  his  ready  obedience,  he  had  always  a  sin 
gular  aversion  to  him.  He  was  much  more  amena 
ble  to  pretty  little  Elmira,  who  cried  pitifully  when 
ever  he  entered  the  house,  and  had  always  to  be 
coaxed  and  threatened  to  make  her  take  medicine  at 
all.  No  one  would  have  said,  and  Doctor  Prescott 
himself  would  not  have  believed,  that  he,  in  his  su 
perior  estate  of  age  and  life,  would  have  stooped  to 
dislike  a  child  like  that,  thus  putting  him  upon  a 
certain  equality  of  antagonism  ;  but  in  truth  he  did. 
Doctor  Prescott  scarcely  ever  knew  one  boy  from 
another  when  he  met  him  upon  the  street,  but  Je 
rome  Edwards  he  never  mistook,  though  he  never 
stirred  his  stately  head  in  response  to  the  boy's  hum 
ble  bob  of  courtesy.  Once,  after  so  meeting  and  pass 
ing  the  boy,  he  heard  an  audacious  note  of  defiance 
at  his  back,  with  a  preliminary  sniff  of  scorn  :  "Hm  ! 
wonder  if  he  thinks  he  was  born  grown  up,  with 
money  in  his  pockets ;  wonder  if  he  thinks  he  owns 
this  whole  town  ?"  The  doctor  never  turned  to  re 
sent  this  sarcastic  soliloquy  whereby  the  boy's  sup 
pressed  democracy  asserted  itself,  but  the  next  time 
he  saw  Jerome's  father  he  told  him  he  had  better 
look  to  his  son's  manners,  and  Jerome  had  been  called 
to  account. 

However,  when  he  had  repeated  his  speech  which 
had  given  offence,  he  had  only  been  charged  to  keep 
his  thoughts  to  himself  in  future.  "I'll  think  ''em, 
anyhow,"  said  Jerome,  with  unabated  defiance. 


123 


"  You'll  pay  proper  respect  to  your  elders,"  said 
his  father. 

"  You'll  think  what  we  tell  you  to,"  said  his 
mother,  but  the  eyes  of  the  two  met.  Doctor  Pres- 
cott  might  hold  the  mortgage  and  exact  his  pound  of 
flesh,  these  poor  backs  might  bend  to  the  yoke,  but 
there  was  no  cringing  in  the  hearts  of  Abel  Edwards 
and  his  wife.  It  was  easy  to  see  where  Jerome  got 
his  spirit. 

However,  spirit  needs  long  experience  and  great 
strength  to  assert  itself  fully  at  all  times  before  long- 
recognized  power.  Jerome,  going  up  the  road  to 
Doctor  Prescott's,  felt  rather  a  fierce  submission  and 
obligatory  humility  than  defiance.  He  felt  as  if  this 
great  man  held  not  only  himself,  but  his  mother  and 
sister,  their  lives  and  fortunes,  at  his  disposal.  Awe 
of  the  reigning  sovereign  was  upon  him,  but  it  was 
the  surly  awe  of  the  peasant  whose  mouth  is  stopped 
by  force  from  questions. 

It  was  not  long  before  Jerome,  going  along  the 
country  road,  came  to  the  beginning  of  Doctor  Pres- 
cott's  estate.  He  owned  long  stretches  of  fields  along 
the  main  street  of  the  village,  comprising  many  fine 
house-lots,  which,  however,  people  were  too  poor  to 
buy.  Doctor  Prescott  fixed  such  high  prices  to  his 
house-lots  that  no  one  could  pay  them.  However, 
people  thought  he  did  not  care  to  sell.  He  liked 
being  a  large  land-owner,  like  an  English  lord,  and 
feeling  that  he  owned  half  the  village,  they  said. 

Moreover,  his  acres  brought  him  a  fair  income. 
They  were  sowed  to  clover  and  timothy,  and  barley 
and  corn,  and  gave  such  hay  and  such  crops  as  no 
others  in  town. 

As  Jerome  passed  these  fair  fields,  either  golden- 


124 


green  with  the  young  grass,  or  ploughed  in  even 
ridges  for  the  new  seeds,,  set  with  dandelions  like 
stars,  or  pierced  as  to  the  brown  mould  with  emerald 
spears  of  grain,  he  scowled  at  them,  and  his  mouth 
puckered  grimly  and  piteously.  He  thought  of  all 
this  land  which  Doctor  Prescott  owned  ;  he  thought 
of  the  one  poor  little  bit  of  soil  which  he  was  going 
to  offer  him,  to  keep  a  roof  over  his  head.  Why 
should  this  man  have  all  this,  and  he  and  his  so  little  ? 
Was  it  because  he  was  better  ?  Jerome  shook  his 
head  vehemently.  Was  it  because  the  Lord  loved 
him  better  ?  Jerome  looked  up  in  the  blue  spring 
sky.  The  problem  of  the  rights  of  the  soil  of  the 
old  earth  was  upon  the  boy,  but  he  could  not  solve 
it — only  scowl  and  grieve  over  it. 

Past  the  length  of  the  shining  fields,  well  back 
from  the  road,  with  a  fine  curve  of  avenue  between 
lofty  pine-trees  leading  up  to  it,  stood  Doctor  Pres- 
cott's  house.  It  was  much  the  finest  one  in  the  vil 
lage,  massively  built  of  gray  stone  in  large  irregular 
blocks,  veined  at  the  junctions  with  white  stucco  ;  a 
great  white  pillared  piazza  stretched  across  the  front, 
and  three  flights  of  stone  steps  led  over  smooth  ter 
races  to  it ;  for  it  was  raised  on  an  artificial  elevation 
above  the  road-level.  Jerome,  having  passed  the  last 
field,  reached  the  avenue  leading  to  the  doctor's  house, 
and  stopped  a  moment.  His  hands  and  feet  were 
cold ;  there  was  a  nervous  trembling  all  over  his  little 
body.  He  remembered  how  once,  when  he  was  much 
younger,  his  mother  had.  sent  him  to  the  doctor's  to 
have  a  tooth  pulled,  how  he  stood  there  trembling 
and  hesitating  as  now,  and  how  he  finally  took  mat 
ters  into  his  own  hands.  A  thrill  of  triumph  shot 
over  him  even  then,  as  he  recalled  that  mad  race  of  his 


125 


away  up  the  road,  on  and  on  until  he  came  to  the 
woods,  and  the  tying  of  the  offending  tooth  to  an'oak- 
tree  by  a  stout  cord,  and  the  agonized  but  undaunted 
pulling  thereat  until  his  object  was  gained. 

"  I'd  'nough  sight  rather  go  to  an  oak-tree  to  have 
my  tooth  out  than  to  Doctor  Prescott,"  he  had  said, 
stoutly,  being  questioned  on  his  return ;  and  his  fa 
ther  and  mother,  being  rather  taken  at  a  loss  by  such 
defiance  and  disobedience,  scarcely  knew  whether  to 
praise  or  blame. 

But  there  was  no  oak-tree  for  this  strait.  Jerome, 
after  a  minute  of  that  blind  groping  and  feeling,  as 
of  the  whole  body  and  soul,  with  which  one  strives 
to  find  some  other  way  to  an  end  than  a  hard  and  re 
pugnant  one,  gave  it  up.  He  went  up  the  avenue, 
holding  his  head  up,  digging  his  toes  into  the  pine- 
needles,  with  an  air  of  stubborn  boyish  bravado,  yet 
all  the  time  the  nervous  trembling  never  ceased. 
However,  half-way  up  the  avenue  he  came  into  one 
of  those  warmer  currents  which  sometimes  linger  so 
mysteriously  among  trees,  seeming  like  a  pool  of  air 
submerging  one  as  visibly  as  water.  This  warm-air 
bath  was,  moreover,  sweetened  with  the  utmost  breath 
of  the  pine  woods.  Jerome,  plunging  into  it,  felt  all 
at  once  a  certain  sense  of  courage  and  relief,  as  if  he 
had  a  bidding  and  a  welcome  from  old  friends. 

There  are  times  when  a  quick  conviction,  from 
something  like  a  special  favor  or  caress  of  the  great 
motherhood  of  nature,  which  makes  us  all  as  child 
to  child,  comes  over  one.  "His  pine-trees  ain't  any 
different  from  other  folks'  pine  -  trees/'  flashed 
through  Jerome's  mind. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  went  on  straight  round  the  house  to  the  south- 
side  door,  whither  everybody  went  to  consult  the 
doctor.  He  knocked,  and  in  a  moment  the  door 
opened,  and  a  young  girl  with  weak  blue  eyes,  with 
a  helpless  droop  of  the  chin,  and  mouth  half  opened 
in  a  silly  smile,  looked  out  at  him.  She  was  a  girl 
whom  Doctor  Prescott  had  taken  from  the  almshouse 
to  assist  in  the  lighter  household  duties.  She  was 
considered  rather  weak  in  her  intellect,  though  she 
did  her  work  well  enough  when  she  had  once  learned 
how. 

Jerome  bent  his  head  with  a  sudden  stiff  duck  to 
this  girl.  "  Is  Doctor  Prescott  at  home  ?"  he  in 
quired. 

"  Yes,  sir/7  replied  the  girl,  with  the  same  respect 
ful  courtesy  and  ceremony  with  which  she  might  have 
greeted  the  Squire  or  any  town  magnate,  instead  of 
this  poor  little  boy.  Her  mind  was  utterly  incapable 
of  the  faculties  of  selection  and  discrimination.  She 
applied  one  formula,  unmodified,  to  all  mankind. 

"  Can  I  see  him  a  minute  ?"  asked  Jerome,  gruffly. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Will  you  walk  in  ?" 

The  girl,  moving  with  a  weak,  shuffling  toddle, 
like  a  child,  led  Jerome  through  the  length  of  the 
entry  to  a  great  room  on  the  north  side  of  the  house, 
which  was  the  doctor's  study  and  office.  Two  large 
cupboards,  whose  doors  were  set  with  glass  in  dia- 


127 


mond  panes  in  the  upper  panels,  held  his  drugs  and 
nostrums.  Books,  mostly  ponderous  volumes  in 
rusty  leather,  lined  the  rest  of  the  wall  space.  When 
Jerome  entered  the  room  the  combined  odor  of  those 
leather-bound  folios  and  the  doctor's  drugs  smote  his 
nostrils,  as  from  a  curious  brewing  of  theoretical  and 
applied  wisdom  in  one  pot. 

"Take  a  seat/'  said  the  girl,  "and  I  will  speak  to 
the  doctor."  Then  she  went  out,  with  the  vain, 
pleased  simper  of  a  child  who  has  said  her  lesson  well. 

Jerome  sat  down  and  looked  about  him.  He  had 
been  in  the  room  several  times  before,  but  his  awe  of 
it  preserved  its  first  strangeness  for  him.  He  eyed 
the  books  on  the  walls,  then  the  great  bottles  visible 
through  the  glass  doors  on  the  cupboard  shelves. 
Those  bottles  were  mostly  of  a  cloudy  green  or 
brown,  but  one  among  them  caught  the  light  and 
shone  as  if  filled  with  liquid  rubies.  That  was  vale 
rian,  but  Jerome  did  not  know  it ;  he  only  thought  it 
must  be  a  very  strong  medicine  to  have  such  a  bright 
color.  He  also  thought  that  the  doctor  must  have 
mixed  all  those  medicines  from  rules  in  those  great 
books,  and  a  sudden  feverish  desire  to  look  into  them 
seized  him.  However,  neither  his  pride  nor  his  ti 
midity  would  have  allowed  him  to  touch  one  of  those 
books,  even  if  he  had  not  expected  the  doctor  to 
enter  every  moment. 

He  waited  quite  a  little  time,  however.  He  could 
hear  the  far-off  tinkle  of  silver  and  click  of  china, 
and  knew  the  family  were  at  dinner.  "  Won't  leave 
his  dinner  for  me/'  thought  Jerome,  with  an  un 
righteous  bitterness  of  humility,  recognizing  the  fact 
that  he  could  not  expect  him  to.  "  Might  have 
planted  an  hour  longer." 


128 


Then  came  a  clang  of  the  knocker,  and  this  time 
the  girl  ushered  into  the  study  a  clamping,  red-faced 
man  in  a  shabby  coat.  Jerome  recognized  him  as  a 
young  farmer  who  lived  three  miles  or  so  out  of  the 
village.  He  blushed  and  stumbled,  with  a  kind  of 
grim  awkwardness,  even  before  the  simple  girl  deliv 
ering  herself  of  her  formula  of  welcome.  He  would 
not  sit  down  ;  he  stood  by  the  corner  of  a  medicine- 
cupboard,  settling  heavily  into  his  boots,  waiting. 

When  the  girl  had  gone  he  looked  at  Jerome,  and 
gave  a  vague  and  furtive  "  Hullo  I"  in  simple  recogni 
tion  of  his  presence,  as  it  were.  He  did  not  know 
who  the  boy  was,  never  being  easily  certain  as  to 
identities  of  any  but  old  acquaintances — not  from 
high  indifference  and  dislike,  like  the  doctor,  but 
from  dulness  of  observation. 

Jerome  nodded  in  response  to  the  man's  salutation. 
"I  can't  ask  the  doctor  before  him,"  he  thought, 
anxiously. 

The  man  rested  heavily,  first  on  one  leg,  then  on 
the  other.  "  Been  waitin'  long  ?"  he  grunted,  finally. 

"Quite  awhile." 

"  Hope  my  horse  '11  stan',"  said  the  man  ;  "  headed 
towards  home,  an' load  off." 

"  The  doctor  can  tend  to  you  first,"  Jerome  said, 
eagerly. 

The  man  gave  a  nod  of  assent.  Thanks,  as  elegan 
cies  of  social  intercourse,  were  alarming,  and  savored 
of  affectation,  to  him.  He  had  thanked  the  Lord, 
from  his  heart,  for  all  his  known  and  unknown  gifts, 
but  his  gratitude  towards  his  fellow-men  had  never 
overcome  his  bashful  self-consciousness  and  found 
voice. 

Often  in  prayer-meeting  Jerome  had  heard  this 


129 


man's  fervent  outpouring  of  the  religious  faith  which 
seemed  the  only  intelligence  of  his  soul,  and,  like  all 
single  and  concentrated  powers,  had  a  certain  force 
of  persuasion.  Jerome  eyed  him  now  with  a  kind  of 
pious  admiration  and  respect,  and  yet  with  recollec 
tions. 

"If  I  were  a  man,  Fd  stop  colorin'  up  and  actin' 
scared,"  thought  the  boy  ;  and  then  they  both  heard 
a  door  open  and  shut,  and  knew  the  doctor  was  com 
ing. 

Jerome's  heart  beat  hard,  yet  he  looked  quite 
boldly  at  the  door.  Somehow  the  young  farmer's 
clumsy  embarrassment  had  roused  his  own  pride  and 
courage.  When  the  doctor  entered,  he  stood  up 
with  alacrity  and  made  his  manners,  and  the  young 
farmer  settled  to  another  foot,  with  a  hoarse  note  of 
greeting. 

The  doctor  said  good-day,  with  formal  courtesy, 
with  his  fine,  keen  face  turned  seemingly  upon  both 
of  them  impartially;  then  he  addressed  the  young 
man. 

' '  How  is  your  wife  to-day  ?"  he  inquired. 

The  young  man  turned  purple,  where  he  had  been 
red,  at  this  direct  address.  "  She's  pretty — comfort 
able/'  he  stammered. 

"  Is  she  out  of  medicine  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  That's  what  I  come  for/'  With  that 
the  young  man  pulled,  with  distressed  f  umblings  and 
jerks,  a  bottle  from  his  pocket,  which  he  handed  to 
the  doctor,  who  had  in  the  meantime  opened  the 
door  of  one  of  the  cupboards. 

The  doctor  took  a  large  bottle  from  the  cupboard, 
and  filled  from  that  the  one  which  the  young  man 
had  brought.  Jerome  stood  trembling,  watching  the 


130 


careful  gurgling  of  a  speckled  green  liquid  from  one 
bottle  to  another.  A  strange  new  odor  filled  the 
room,  overpowering  all  the  others. 

When  the  doctor  gave  the  bottle  to  the  young 
man,  he  shoved  it  carefully  away  in  his  pocket  again, 
and  then  stood  coloring  more  deeply  and  hesitating. 

"  Can  ye  take  your  pay  in  wood  for  this  and  the 
last  two  lots  ?"  he  murmured  at  length,  so  low  that 
Jerome  scarcely  heard  him. 

But  the  doctor  never  lowered  nor  raised  his  inci 
sive,  high-bred  voice  for  any  man.  His  reply  left  no 
doubt  of  the  question.  "No,  Mr.  Upham,"  said 
Doctor  Prescott.  "You  must  pay  me  in  money  for 
medicine.  I  have  enough  wood  of  my  own." 

"  I  know  ye  have  —  considerable,"  responded  the 
young  man,  in  an  agony,  "but — " 

"  I  would  like  the  money  as  soon  as  convenient," 
said  the  doctor. 

"I'm — havin' — dreadful — hard  work  to  get — any 
money  myself  —  lately,"  persisted  the  young  man. 
"Folks — they  promise,  but — they  don't  pay,  an' — " 

"  Never  give  or  take  promises  long  enough  to  cal 
culate  interest,"  interposed  Doctor  Prescott,  with 
stern  pleasantry ;  "  that's  my  rule,  young  man,  and 
it's  the  one  I  expect  others  to  follow  in  their  busi 
ness  dealings  with  me.  Don't  give  and  don't  take  ; 
then  3^ou'll  make  your  way  in  life." 

Ozias  Lamb  had  said  once,  in  Jerome's  hearing, 
that  all  the  medicine  that  Doctor  Prescott  ever  gave 
to  folks  for  nothing  was  good  advice,  and  he  didn't 
know  but  then  he  sent  the  bill  in  to  the  Almighty. 
Jerome,  who  had  taken  this  in,  with  a  sharp  wink  of 
appreciation,  in  spite  of  his  mothers  promptly  send 
ing  him  out  of  the  room,  thinking  that  such  talk 


131 


savored  of  irreverence.,  and  was  not  fit  for  youthful 
ears,  remembered  it  now,  as  he  heard  Doctor  Pres- 
cott  admonishing  poor  John  Upham. 

"Know  ye've  got  considerable,"  mumbled  John 
Upham,  who  had  rough  lands  enough  for  a  village, 
but  scarce  two  shillings  in  pocket,  and  a  delicate 
young  wife  and  three  babies;  "but  —  thought  ye 
hadn't — no  old  apple-tree  wood — old  apple-tree  wood 
— well  seasoned — jest  the  thing  for  the  parlor  hearth 
— didn't  know  but— 

"I  should  like  the  money  next  week,"  said  the 
doctor,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  a  word  of  poor  John's 
entreaty. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  miserably.  "Dun- 
'no'  as  I  can — nohow." 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  him  calmly, 
"Frn  willing  to  take  a  little  land  for  the  medicine 
and  that  last  winter's  bill,  when  Johnny  had  the 
measles." 

Then  this  poor  John  Upham,  uncouth,  and  scarce 
ly  quicker-witted  than  one  of  his  own  oxen,  but  as 
faithful,  and  living  up  wholly  to  his  humble  lights, 
turned  pale  through  his  blushes,  and  stared  at  the 
doctor  as  if  he  could  not  have  heard  aright.  "  Take 
—my  land  ?"  he  faltered. 

Doctor  Prescott  never  smiled  with  his  eyes,  but 
only  with  a  symmetrical  curving  and  lengthening  of 
his  finely  cut,  thin  lips.  He  smiled  so  then.  "Yes, 
I  am  willing  to  take  some  land  for  the  debt,  since 
you  have  not  the  money,"  said  he. 

"But — that  was— father's  land." 

"Yes,  and  your  father  was  a  good,  thifty  man. 
He  did  not  waste  his  substance." 

"It  was  grandfather's,  too." 


132 


"Yes,  it  was,  I  believe/' 

"It  has  always  been  in  our  —  family.  It's  the 
Upham — land.  I  can't  part  with  it  nohow." 

"  I  will  take  the  money,  then,"  said  Doctor  Pres- 
cott. 

"  Til  raise  it  just  as  soon  as  I  can,  doctor,"  cried 
John  Upham,  eagerly.  "I've  got  a  man's  note  for 
twenty  dollars  comin'  due  in  three  months  ;  he's 
sure  to  pay.  An'  —  there's  some  cedar  ordered, 
an'—" 

"I  must  have  it  next  week,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  or — "  He  paused.  "  I  shall  dislike  to  proceed  to 
extreme  measures,"  he  added. 

Then  John  Upham,  aroused  to  boldness  by  des 
peration,  as  the  very  oxen  will  sometimes  run  in 
madness  if  the  goad  be  sharp  enough,  told  Doctor 
Prescott  to  his  -face,  with  scarce  a  stumble  in  his 
speech,  that  he  OAvned  half  the  town  now  ;  that  his 
land  was  much  more  valuable  than  his,  which  was 
mostly  swampy  woodland  and  pasture-lands,  bringing 
in  scarcely  enough  income  to  feed  and  clothe  his 
family. 

"  Sha'n't  have  'no ugh  to  live  on  if  I  let  any  on't 
go,"  said  John  Upham,  "an'  you've  got  more  land 
as  'tis  than  any  other  man  in  town." 

Doctor  Prescott  did  not  raise  or  quicken  his  clear 
voice  ;  his  eyes  did  not  flash,  but  they  gave  out  a 
hard  light.  John  Upham  was  like  a  giant  before 
this  little,  neat,  wiry  figure,  which  had  such  a  majesty 
of  port  that  it  seemed  to  throw  its  own  shadow  over 
him. 

"We  are  not  discussing  the  extent  of  my  posses 
sions,"  said  Doctor  Prescott,  "but  the  extent  of  your 
debts."  He  moved  aside,  as  if  to  clear  the  passage 


133 


to  the  door,  turning  slightly  at  the  same  time  tow 
ards  his  other  caller,  who  was  cold  with  indignation 
upon  John  Upham's  account  and  terror  upon  his 
own. 

Half  minded  he  was,  when  John  Upham  went  out, 
with  his  clamping,  clumsy  tread,  with  his  honest 
head  cast  down,  and  no  more  words  in  his  mouth  for 
the  doctor's  last  smoothly  scathing  remark,  to  follow 
him  at  a  bound  and  ask  nothing  for  himself  ;  but  he 
stood  still  and  watched  him  go. 

When  John  Upham  had  opened  the  door  and  was 
passing  through,  the  doctor  pursued  him  with  yet 
one  more  bit  of  late  advice.  "  It  is  poor  judgment," 
said  Doctor  Prescott,  "for  a  young  man  to  marry 
and  bring  children  into  the  world  until  he  has  prop 
erty  enough  to  support  them  without  running  into 
debt.  You  would  have  done  better  had  you  waited, 
Mr.  Upham.  It  is  what  I  always  tell  young  men." 

Then  John  Upham  turned  with  the  last  turn  of 
the  trodden  worm.  "My  wife  and  my  children  are 
my  own  !"  he  cried  out,  with  a  great  roar.  "  It's 
between  me  and  my  Maker,  my  having  'em,  and  I'll 
answer  to  no  man  for  it  !"  With  that  he  was  gone, 
and  the  door  shut  hard  after  him. 

Then  Doctor  Prescott,  no  whit  disturbed,  turned 
to  Jerome  and  looked  at  him.  Jerome  made  his 
manners  again.  "You  are  the  Edwards  boy,  aren't 
you  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

Jerome  humbly  acknowledged  his  identity. 

"What  do  you  want  ?  Has  your  mother  sent  you 
on  an  errand  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  then  ?" 

"  Please,  sir,  may  I  speak  to  you  a  minute  ?" 


134 


"  Speak  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Doctor  Prescott  wore  a  massive  gold  watch-chain 
festooned  across  his  fine  black  satin  vest.  He  pulled 
out  before  the  boy's  wondering  and  perplexed  eyes 
the  great  gold  timepiece  attached  to  it  and  looked  at 
it.  "  You  must  be  quick/'  said  he.  "  I  have  to  go 
in  five  minutes.  I  will  give  you  five  minutes  by  my 
watch.  Begin." 

But  poor  little  Jerome,  thus  driven  with  such  a 
hard  check-rein  of  time,  paled  and  reddened  and 
trembled,  and  could  find  no  words. 

"  One  minute  is  gone/'  said  the  doctor,  looking 
over  the  open  face  of  his  watch  at  Jerome.  Some 
thing  in  his  glance  spurred  on  the  frightened  boy  by 
arousing  a  flash  of  resentment. 

Jerome,  standing  straight  before  the  doctor,  with 
a  little  twitching  hand  hanging  at  each  side,  with  his 
color  coming  and  going,  and  pulses  which  could  be 
seen  beating  hard  in  his  temples  and  throat,  spoke 
and  delivered  himself  of  that  innocently  overreach 
ing  scheme  which  he  had  propounded  to  Squire  Eben 
Merritt. 

It  seems  probable  that  mental  states  have  their  own 
reflective  powers,  which  sometimes  enable  one  to  sud 
denly  see  himself  in  the  conception  of  another,  to 
the  complete  modification  of  all  his  own  ideas  and 
opinions.  So  little  Jerome  Edwards,  even  while 
speaking,  began  to  see  his  plan  as  it  looked  to  Doctor 
Prescott,  and  not  as  it  had  hitherto  looked  to  him 
self.  He  began  to  understand  and  to  realize  the  flaws 
in  it — that  he  had  asked  more  of  Doctor  Prescott 
than  he  would  grant.  Still,  he  went  on,  and  the 
doctor  heard  him  through  without  a  word. 


135 


"  Who  put  you  up  to  this  ?"  the  doctor  asked, 
when  he  had  finished. 

"  Nobody,  sir." 

"Your  mother?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  your  father  propose  anything 
like  this  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Who  did  ?     Speak  the  truth." 

"I  did." 

"You  thought  out  this  plan  yourself  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Look  at  me." 

Jerome,  flushing  with  angry  shame  at  his  own  sim 
plicity  as  revealed  to  him  by  this  other,  older,  supe 
rior  intellect,  yet  defiant  still  at  this  attack  upon 
his  truth,  looked  the  doctor  straight  in  his  keen 
eyes. 

"  Are  you  speaking  the  truth  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Still  the  doctor  looked  at  him,  and  Jerome  would 
not  cast  his  eyes  down,  nor,  indeed,  could.  He  felt 
as  if  his  very  soul  were  being  stretched  up  on  tiptoe 
to  the  doctor's  inspection. 

"  Children  had  better  follow  the  wisdom  of  their 
elders,"  said  the  doctor.  He  would  not  even  deign 
to  explain  to  this  boy  the  absurdity  of  his  scheme. 

He  replaced  the  great  gold  watch  in  his  pocket. 
"  I  will  be  in  soon,  and  talk  over  matters  with  your 
mother,"  he  said,  turning  away. 

Jerome  gave  a  gasp.  He  stumbled  forward,  as  if 
to  fall  on  his  knees  at  the  doctors  feet. 

"  Oh,  sir,  don't,  don't  !"  he  cried  out. 

"Don't  what?" 


136 


"Don't  foreclose  the  mortgage.  It  will  kill 
mother." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about/' 
said  the  doctor,  calmly.  "  Children  should  not  med 
dle  in  matters  beyond  them.  I  will  settle  it  with 
your  mother." 

"  Mother's  sick  !"  gasped  Jerome.  The  doctor  was 
moving  with  his  stately  strut  to  the  door.  Suddenly 
the  boy,  in  a  great  outburst  of  boldness,  flung  him 
self  before  this  great  man  of  his  childhood  and  ar 
rested  his  progress.  "Oh,  sir,  tell  me,"  he  begged 
— "tell  me  what  you're  going  to  do  !" 

The  doctor  never  knew  why  he  stopped  to  explain 
and  parley.  He  was  conscious  of  no  softening  towards 
this  boy,  who  had  so  repelled  him  with  his  covert  re 
bellion,  and  had  now  been  guilty  of  a  much  greater 
offence.  An  appeal  to  a  goodness  which  is  not  in 
him  is  to  a  sensitive  and  vain  soul  a  stinging  insult. 
Doctor  Prescott  could  have  administered  corporal 
punishment  to  this  boy,  who  seemed  to  him  to  be 
actually  poking  fun  at  his  dignity,  and  yet  he  stopped 
and  answered : 

"  I  am  going  to  take  your  house  into  my  hands," 
said  Doctor  Prescott,  "and  your  mother  can  live  in 
it  and  pay  me  rent." 

"We  can't  pay  rent  any  better  than  interest 
money." 

"If  you  can't  pay  the  rent,  I  shall  be  willing  to 
take  that  wood-lot  of  your  father's,"  said  Doctor 
Prescott.  "  I  will  talk  that  over  with  your  mother." 

Jerome  looked  at  him.  There  was  a  dreadful  ex 
pression  on  his  little  boyish  face.  His  very  lips 
were  white.  "  You  are  goin'  to  take  our  woodland 
for  rents  ?" 


137 


"  If  you  can't  pay  them,  of  course.  Your  mother 
ought  to  be  glad  she  has  it  to  pay  with." 

"  Then  we  shaVt  have  anything." 

Doctor  Prescott  endeavored  to  move  on,  but  Je 
rome  fairly  crowded  himself  between  him  and  the 
door,  and  stood  there,  his  pale  face  almost  touching 
his  breast,  and  his  black  eyes  glaring  up  at  him  with 
a  startling  nearness  as  of  fire. 

"You  are  a  wicked  man,"  said  the  boy,  "and 
some  day  God  will  punish  you  for  it." 

Then  there  came  a  grasp  of  nervous  hands  upon 
his  shoulders,  like  the  clamp  of  steel,  the  door  was 
opened  before  him,  and  he  was  pushed  out,  and  along 
the  entry  at  armVlength,  and  finally  made  to  de 
scend  the  south  door-steps  at  a  dizzy  run.  "  Go 
home  to  your  mother,"  ordered  Doctor  Prescott. 
Still,  he  did  not  raise  his  voice,  his  color  had  not 
changed,  and  he  breathed  no  quicker.  Births  and 
deaths,  all  natural  stresses  of  life,  its  occasional  trage 
dies,  and  even  his  own  bitter  wrath  could  this  small, 
equally  poised  man  meet  with  calm  superiority  over 
them  and  command  over  himself.  Doctor  Seth  Pres 
cott  never  lost  his  personal  dignity — he  could  not, 
since  it  was  so  inseparable  from  his  personality.  If 
he  chastised  his  son,  it  was  with  the  judicial  majesty 
of  a  king,  and  never  with  a  self-demeaning  show  of 
anger.  He  ate  and  drank  in  his  own  house  like  a 
guest  of  state  at  a  feast ;  he  drove  his  fine  sorrel  in 
his  sulky  like  a  war-horse  in  a  chariot.  Once,  when 
walking  to  meeting  on  an  icy  day,  his  feet  went  from 
under  him,  and  he  sat  down  suddenly ;  but  even  his 
fall  seemed  to  have  something  majestic  and  solemn 
and  Scriptural  about  it.  Nobody  laughed. 

Doctor  Prescott  expelling  this  little  boy  from  his 


138 


south  door  had  the  impress! veness  of  a  priest  of 
Bible  times  expelling  an  interloper  from  the  door 
of  the  Temple.  Jerome  almost  fell  when  he  reached 
the  ground,,  but  collected  himself  after  a  staggering 
step  or  two  as  the  door  shut  behind  him. 

The  doctor's  sulky  was  drawn  up  before  the  door, 
and  Jake  Noyes  stood  by  the  horse's  head.  The 
horse  sprang  aside — he  was  a  nervous  sorrel — when 
Jerome  flew  down  the  steps,  and  Jake  Noyes  reined 
him  up  quickly  with  a  sharp  "  Whoa  !" 

As  soon  as  he  recovered  his  firm  footing,  Jerome 
started  to  run  out  of  the  yard  ;  but  Jake,  holding  the 
sorrel's  bridle  with  one  hand,  reached  out  the  other 
to  his  collar  and  brought  him  to  a  stand. 

"  Hullo  !"  said  he,  hushing  his  voice  somewhat 
and  glancing  at  the  door.  fe  What's  to  pay  ?" 

"  I  told  him  he  Avas  a  wicked  man,  and  he  didn't 
like  it  because  it's  true/'  replied  Jerome,  in  a  loud 
voice,  trying  to  pull  away. 

"Hush  up/'  whispered  Jake,  with  a  half-whim 
sical,  half-uneasy  nod  of  his  head  towards  the  door ; 
"look  out  how  you  talk.  He'll  be  out  and  crammin' 
blue-pills  and  assafcetidy  into  your  mouth  first  thing 
you  know.  Don't  you  go  to  sassin'  of  your  bet 
ters." 

"  He  is  a  wicked  man  !  I  don't  care,  he  is  a  wicked 
man  I"  cried  Jerome,  loudly.  He  glanced  defiantly 
at  the  house,  then  into  Jake's  face,  with  a  white 
flash  of  fury. 

"Hush  up,  I  tell  ye,"  said  Jake.  "He'll  be  a- 
pourin'  of  castor-ile  down  your  throat  out  of  a  quart 
measure,  arter  the  blue-pills  and  the  assafcetidy." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  him  !  He  is  a  wicked  man.  Let 
me  go  !" 


139 


"  Don't  you  go  to  callin'  names  that  nobody  but 
the  Almighty  has  any  right  to  fasten  on  to  folks." 

"Let  me  go  I"  Jerome  wriggled  under  the  man's 
detaining  grasp,  as  wirily  instinct  with  nerves  as  a 
cat ;  he  kicked  out  viciously  at  his  shins. 

"  Lord  !  I'd  as  lief  try  to  hold  a  catamount,"  cried 
Jake  Noyes,  laughing,  and  released  him,  and  Jerome 
raced  out  of  the  yard. 

It  was  then  about  two  o'clock.  He  should  have 
gone  home  to  his  planting,  but  his  childish  patience 
was  all  gone.  Poor  little  Jack  had  been  worsted  by 
the  giant,  and  his  bean-garden  might  as  well  be  neg 
lected.  Human  strength  may  endure  heavy  disap 
pointments  and  calamities  with  heroism,  but  it  re 
quires  superhuman  power  to  hold  one's  hand  to  the 
grindstone  of  petty  duties  and  details  of  life  in  the 
midst  of  them.  Jerome  had  faced  his  rebuff  with 
out  a  whimper,  and  with  a  great  stand  of  spirit,  but 
now  he  could  not  go  home  and  work  in  the  garden, 
and  tie  his  fiery  revolt  to  the  earth  with  spade  and 
hoe.  He  ran  on  up  the  road,  until  he  passed  the 
village  and  came  to  his  woodland.  He  followed  the 
cart  path  through  it,  until  he  was  near  the  boundary 
wall ;  then  he  threw  himself  down  in  the  midst  of 
some  young  brakes  and  little  wild  green  things, 'and 
presently  fell  to  weeping,  with  loud  sobs,  like  a  baby. 

All  day  he  had  been  strained  up  to  an  artificial 
height  of  manhood ;  now  he  had  come  down  again 
to  his  helpless  estate  of  boyhood.  In  the  solitude  of 
the  woods  there  is  no  mocking,  and  no  despite  for 
helplessness  and  grief.  The  trees  raising  their  heads 
in  a  great  host  athwart  the  sky,  the  tender  plants  be 
neath  gathering  into  their  old  places  with  tumultuous 
silence,  put  to  shame  no  outcry  of  any  suffering  heart 


140 


of  bird  or  beast  or  man.  To  these  unpruned  and 
mother-fastnesses  of  the  earth  belonged  at  first  the 
wailing  infancy  of  all  life,  and  even  now  a  vague 
memory  of  it  is  left,  like  the  organ  of  a  lost  sense,  in 
the  heart  oppressed  by  the  grief  of  the  grown  world. 

The  boy  unknowingly  had  fled  to  his  first  mother, 
who  had  soothed  his  old  sorrow  in  his  heart  before 
he  had  come  into  the  consciousness  of  it.  Had  Doc 
tor  Prescott  at  any  minute  surprised  him,  he  would 
have  faced  him  again,  with  no  sign  of  weakening; 
but  he  lay  there,  curled  up  among  the  brakes  as  in  a 
green  nest,  with  his  face  against  the  earth,  and  her 
breath  of  aromatic  moisture  in  his  nostrils,  and  sobbed 
and  wept  until  he  fell  asleep. 

He  had  slept  an  hour  and  a  half,  when  he  wak 
ened  suddenly,  with  a  clear  "Hello  !"in  his  ears.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up,  dazed,  into  Squire 
Eben  Merritt's  great  blond  face. 

"  Hullo  !"  said  Squire  Eben  again.  "  I  thought  it 
was  a  woodchuck,  and  instead  of  that  it's  a  boy. 
What  are  you  doing  here,  sir  ?" 

Jerome  raised  himself  falteringly.  He  felt  weak, 
and  the  confused  misery  of  readjusting  the  load  of 
grief  under  which  one  has  fallen  asleep  was  upon 
him.  "  Guess  I  fell  asleep,"  he  stammered. 

"Guess  you'd  better  not  fall  asleep  in  such  a  damp 
hole  as  this,"  said  the  Squire,  "  or  the  rheumatism 
will  catch  your  young  bones.  Why  aren't  you  home 
planting,  sir  ?  I  thought  you  were  a  smart  boy." 

"He'll  get  it  all;  there  ain't  any  use  \"  said  Je 
rome,  with  pitiful  doggedness,  standing  ankle-deep 
in  brakes  before  the  Squire.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
heavy  with  sleep  and  tears,  and  raised  them,  dull 
still,  into  the  Squire's  face. 


141 


"  Who  do  you  mean  by  he  ?    Dr.  Prescott  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  he  didn't  approve  of  your  plan  ?" 

"  He's  going  to  take  our  house,  and  let  us  live  in 
it  and  pay  rent,  and  if  we  can't  pay  he's  going  to 
take  our  wood -lot  here — '  Suddenly  Jerome  gave 
a  great  sob  ;  he  flung  himself  down  wildly.  "  He 
sha'n't  have  it;  he  shaVt  —  he  never  shall!''  he 
sobbed,  and  clutched  at  the  brakes  and  held  them  to 
his  bosom,  as  if  he  were  indeed  holding  some  dear 
thing  against  an  enemy  who  would  wrest  it  from 
him. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt,  towering  over  him,  with  a 
long  string  of  trout  at  his  side,  looked  at  him  with 
a  puzzled  frown  ;  then  he  reached  down  and  pulled 
him  to  his  feet  with  a  mighty  and  gentle  jerk. 
"How  old  are  you,  sir  ?"  he  demanded.  "Thought 
you  were  a  man  ;  thought  you  were  going  to  learn  to 
fire  my  gun.  Guess  you  haven't  been  out  of  petti 
coats  long  enough,  after  all !" 

Jerome  drew  his  sleeve  fiercely  across  his  eyes,  and 
then  looked  up  at  the  Squire  proudly.  "Didn't  cry 
before  him,"  said  he. 

Squire  Eben  laughed,  and  gave  his  back  a  hard 
pat.  "  I  guess  you'll  do,  after  all,"  said  he.  "  So 
you  didn't  have  much  luck  with  the  doctor  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  don't  you  fret.  I'll  see  what  can  be  done. 
I'll  see  him  to-night  myself." 

Jerome  looked  up  in  his  face,  like  one  who  scarce 
ly  dares  to  believe  in  offered  comfort. 

The  Squire  nodded  kindly  at  him.  "  You  leave  it 
all  to  me,"  said  he  ;  "  don't  you  worry." 

Jerome  belonged  to  a  family  in  which  there  had 


142 


been  little  demonstration  of  devotion  and  affection. 
His  parents  never  caressed  their  children;  he  and 
his  sister  had  scarcely  kissed  each  other  since  their 
infancy.  No  matter  how  fervid  their  hearts  might 
be,  they  had  also  a  rigidity,  as  of  paralyzed  muscles, 
which  forbade  much  expression  as  a  shame  and  an 
affectation.  Jerome  had  this  tendency  of  the  New 
England  character  from  inheritance  and  training; 
but  now,  in  spite  of  it,  he  fell  down  before  Squire 
Eben  Merritt,  embraced  his  knees,  and  kissed  his 
very  feet  in  their  great  boots,  and  then  his  hand. 

Squire  Eben  laughed,  pulled  the  boy  to  his  feet 
again,  and  bade  him  again  to  cheer  up  and  not  to 
fret.  The  same  impulse  of  kindly  protection  which 
led  him  to  spare  the  lives  and  limbs  of  old  trees  was 
over  him  now  towards  this  weak  human  plant. 

"  Come  along  with  me,"  said  Squire  Eben,  and 
forthwith  Jerome  had  followed  him  out  of  the  woods 
into  the  road,  and  down  it  until  they  reached  his  sis 
ter's,  Miss  Camilla  Merritt's,  house,  not  far  from  Doc 
tor  Prescott's.  There  Squire  Eben  was  about  to  part 
with  Jerome,  with  more  words  of  reassurance,  when 
suddenly  he  remembered  that  his  sister  needed  such 
a  boy  to  weed  her  flower-beds,  and  had  spoken  to 
him  about  procuring  one  for  her.  So  he  had  bidden 
Jerome  follow  him ;  and  the  bo}r,  who  would  at  that 
moment  have  gone  over  a  precipice  after  him,  went 
to  Miss  Camilla's  tea-drinking  in  her  arbor. 

When  he  went  home,  in  an  hour's  time,  he  was  en 
gaged  to  weed  Miss  Camilla's  flower  -  garden  all  sum 
mer,  at  two  shillings  per  week,  and  it  was  understood 
that  his  sister  could  weed  as  well  as  he  when  his 
home-work  prevented  his  coming. 

In   early  youth  exaltation  of   spirit  requires  but 


143 


slight  causes  ;  only  a  soft  puff  of  a  favoring  wind  will 
send  up  one  like  a  kite  into  the  ether.  Jerome,  with 
the  prospect  of  two  shillings  per  week,  and  that  great, 
kindly  strength  of  the  Squire's  underlying  his  weak 
ness,  went  home  as  if  he  had  wings  on  his  feet. 

"  See  that  boy  of  poor  Abel  Edwards's  dancin' 
along,  when  his  father  ain't  been  dead  a  week  I"  one 
woman  at  her  window  said  to  another. 


CHAPTER  X 

SQUIRE  EBEN  MEREITT  had  three  boon  companions 
— the  village  lawyer,  Eliphalet  Means  ;  a  certain 
John  Jennings,  the  last  of  one  of  the  village  old  fam 
ilies,  a  bachelor  of  some  fifty  odd,  who  had  wasted 
his  health  and  patrimony  in  riotous  living,  and  had 
now  settled  down  to  prudence  and  moderation,  if  not 
repentance,  in  the  home  of  his  ancestors  ;  and  one 
Colonel  Jack  Lamson,  also  considered  somewhat  of 
a  rake,  who  had  possibly  tendered  his  resignation 
rather  than  his  reformation,  and  that  perforce. 
Colonel  Lamson  also  hailed  originally  from  a  good 
old  stock  of  this  village  and  county.  He  had  gone 
to  the  wars  for  his  country,  and  retired  at  fifty-eight 
with  a  limp  in  his  right  leg  and  a  cane.  Colonel 
Lamson,  being  a  much-removed  cousin  of  the  law 
yer's,  kept  bachelors'  hall  with  him  in  a  comfortable 
and  untidy  old  mansion  at  the  other  end  of  the  town, 
across  the  brook. 

Many  nights  of  a  week  these  four  met  for  an  even 
ing  of  whist  or  bezique,  to  the  scandal  of  the  steady- 
going  folk  of  the  town,  who  approved  not  of  cards, 
and  opined  that  the  Squire's  poor  wife  must  feel  bad 
enough  to  have  such  carousings  at  her  house.  But 
the  Squire's  wife,  who  had  in  herself  a  rare  under 
standing  among  women  of  masculine  good-fellow 
ship,  had  sometimes,  if  the  truth  had  been  told, 
taken  an  ailing  member's  hand  at  cards  when  their 


145 


orgies  convened  at  the  Squire's.  John  Jennings,  be 
ing  somewhat  afflicted  with  rheumatic  gout,  was  oc 
casionally  missing.  Then  did  Abigail  Merritt  take 
his  place,  and  play  with  the  sober  concentration  of 
a  man  and  the  quick  wit  of  a  woman.  Colonel  Jack 
Lamson,  whose  partner  she  was,  privately  preferred 
her  to  John  Jennings,  whose  overtaxed  mental  pow 
ers  sometimes  failed  him  in  the  memory  of  the 
cards  ;  but  being  as  intensely  loyal  to  his  friends  as 
to  his  country,  he  never  spoke  to  that  effect.  He 
only,  when  the  little,  trim,  black-haired  woman  made 
a  brilliant  stroke  of  finesse,  with  a  quick  flash  of  her 
bright  eyes  and  wise  compression  of  lips,  smiled 
privately,  as  if  to  himself,  with  face  bent  upon  his 
hand. 

Whether  Abigail  Merritt  played  cards  or  not,  she 
always  brewed  a  great  bowl  of  punch,  as  no  one  but 
she  knew  how  to  do,  and  set  it  out  for  the  delectation 
of  her  husband  and  his  friends.  The  receipt  for  this 
punch — one  which  had  been  long  stored  in  the  culi 
nary  archives  of  the  Merritt  family,  with  the  pound 
cake  and  other  rich  and  toothsome  compounds — had 
often,  upon  entreaty,  been  confided  to  other  ambi 
tious  matrons,  but  to  no  purpose.  Let  them  spice 
and  flavor  and  add  measures  of  fine  strong  liquors 
as  they  would,  their  punch  had  not  that  perfect  har 
mony  of  results,  which  effaces  detail,  of  Abigail  Mer- 
ritt's. 

' '  By  George  I"  Colonel  Jack  Lamson  was  wont  to 
say,  when  his  first  jorum  had  trickled  down  his  ex 
perienced  throat  —  "By  George!  I  thought  I  had 
drunk  punch.  There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  I 
could  mix  a  bowl  of  punch  myself,  but  this  is  punch." 

Then  John  Jennings,  holding  his  empty  glass, 
10 


146 


would  speak  :  "  All  we  could  taste  in  that  last  punch 
that  Belinda  Armstrong  made  at  my  house  was  lem 
on  ;  and  the  time  before  that,  allspice  ;  and  the  time 
before  that,  raw  rum."  John  Jennings's  voice,  some 
what  hoarse,  was  yet  full  of  sweet  melancholy  ca 
dences  ;  there  was  sentiment  and  pathos  in  his  "lem 
on  "and  "allspice,"  which  waxed  almost  tearful  in  his 
"raw  rum."  His  worn,  high-bred  face  was  as  instinct 
with  gentle  melancholy  as  his  voice,  yet  his  sunken 
black  eyes  sparkled  with  the  light  of  youth  as  the 
fine  aromatic  fire  of  the  punch  penetrated  his  veins. 

As  for  the  lawyer,  who  was  the  eldest  of  the  four, 
long,  brown,  toughly  and  dryly  pliant  as  an  old  blade 
of  marsh-grass,  he  showed  in  speech,  look,  nor  man 
ner  no  sign  of  enthusiasm,  but  he  drank  the  punch. 

That  evening,  after  Jerome  Edwards  had  run  home 
with  his  prospects  of  two  shillings  a  week  and  Squire 
Eben  Merritt's  assistance,  the  friends  met  at  the 
Squire's  house.  At  eight  o'clock  they  came  march 
ing  down  the  road,  the  three  of  them — John  Jen 
nings  in  fine  old  broadcloth  and  a  silk  hat,  with  a 
weak  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  a  languid  shakiness 
in  his  long  limbs  ;  the  lawyer  striding  nimbly  as  a 
grasshopper,  with  the  utter  unconsciousness  of  one 
who  pursues  only  the  ultimate  ends  of  life  ;  and  the 
colonel,  halting  on  his  right  knee,  and  recovering 
himself  stiffly  with  his  cane,  holding  his  shoulders 
back,  breathing  a  little  heavily,  his  neck  puffing  over 
his  high  stock,  his  face  a  purplish-red  about  his  white 
mustache  and  close-cropped  beard. 

The  Squire's  wife  had  the  punch-bowl  all  ready  in 
the  south  room,  where  the  parties  were  held.  Some 
pipes  were  laid  out  there  too,  and  a  great  jar  of 
fine  tobacco,  and  the  cards  were  on  the  mahogany 


147 


card-table— four  packs  for  boziquo.  Abigail  herself 
opened  the  door,  admitted  the  guests,  and  ushered 
them  into  the  south  room.  Colonel  Lamson  said 
something  about  the  aroma  of  the  punch ;  and  John 
Jennings,  in  his  sweet,  melancholy  voice,  something 
gallant  about  the  fair  hands  that  mixed  it ;  but 
Eliphalet  Means  moved  unobtrusively  across  the 
room  and  dipped  out  for  himself  a  glass  of  the  bev 
erage,  and  wasted  not  his  approval  in  empty  words. 

The  Squire  came  in  shortly  and  greeted  his  guests, 
but  he  had  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"I  have  to  go  out  on  business/7  he  announced. 
"  I  shall  not  be  long.  Mrs.  Merritt  will  have  to  take 
my  place." 

Abigail  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  But  she  was  a 
most  discreet  wife.  She  never  asked  a  question, 
though  she  wondered  why  her  husband  had  not 
spoken  of  this  before.  The  truth  was  he  had  forgot 
ten  his  card-party  when  he  had  made  his  promise  to 
Jerome,  and  then  he  had  forgotten  his  promise  to 
Jerome  in  thinking  of  his  card-party,  and  little  Lu- 
cina  on  her  way  to  bed  had  just  brought  it  to  mind 
by  asking  when  he  was  going,  She  had  heard  the 
promise,  and  had  not  forgotten. 

s(  By  the  Lord  Harry  I"  said  the  Squire,  for  he  heard 
his  friends  down-stairs.  Then,  when  Lucina  looked 
at  him  with  innocent  wonder,  he  said,  hurriedly, 
"Now,  Pretty — I  am  going  now,"  and  went  down  to 
excuse  himself  to  his  guests. 

Eliphalet  Means,  whose  partner  Abigail  had  become 
by  this  deflection,  nodded,  and  seated  himself  at  once 
in  his  place  at  table,  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the 
punch  in  his  veins  and  approval  in  his  heart.  He 
considered  Abigail  a  better  player  than  her  husband. 


148 


and  began  to  meditate  proposing  a  small  stake  that 
evening. 

The  Squire,,  setting  forth  on  his  errand  to  Doctor 
Prescott,  striding  heavily  through  the  sweet  damp 
ness -of  the  spring  night,  experienced  a  curious  com 
bination  of  amusement,,  satisfaction,  and  indignation 
with  himself.  "  I'm  a  fool  I"  he  declared,  with  more 
vehemence  than  he  would  have  declared  four  aces  in 
bezique  ;  and  then  he  cursed  his  folly,  and  told  him 
self  that  if  he  kept  on  he  would  leave  Abigail  and 
the  child  without  a  penny.  But  then,  after  all,  he 
realized  that  singularly  warm  glow  of  self -approval 
for  a  good  deed  which  at  once  comforts  and  irradi 
ates  the  heart  in  spite  of  all  worldly  prudence  and 
wisdom. 

That  night  the  air  was  very  heavy  with  moisture, 
which  seemed  to  hold  all  the  spring  odors  of  newly 
turned  earth,  young  grass,  and  blossoms  in  solution. 
Squire  Eben  moved  through  it  as  through  a  scented 
flood  in  which  respiration  was  possible.  Over  all  the 
fields  was  a  pale  mist,  waving  and  eddying  in  such 
impalpable  air  currents  that  it  seemed  to  have  a  sen 
tient  life  of  its  own.  These  soft  rises  and  lapses  of 
the  mist  on  the  fields  might  seemingly  have  been  due 
to  the  efforts  of  prostrate  shadows  to  gather  them 
selves  into  form.  Beyond  the  fields,  against  the  hills 
and  woods  and  clear  horizon,  pale  fogs  arose  with 
motions  as  of  arms  and  garments  and  streaming  locks. 
The  blossoming  trees  stood  out  suddenly  beside  one 
with  a  white  surprise  rather  felt  than  seen.  The 
young  moon  and  the  stars  shone  dimly  with  scatter 
ing  rays,  and  the  lights  in  the  house  windows  were 
veiled.  The  earth  and  sky  and  all  the  familiar  feat 
ures  of  the  village  had  that  effect  of  mystery  and  un- 


149 


reality  which  some  conditions  of  the  atmosphere  bring 
to  pass. 

A  strangely  keen  sense  of  the  unstability  of  all 
earthly  things,  of  the  shadows  of  the  tomb,  of  the 
dreamy  half-light  of  the  world,  came  over  Eben  Mer- 
ritt,  and  his  generous  impulse  seemed  suddenly  the 
only  lantern  to  light  his  wavering  feet.  "I'll  do 
what  I  can  for  the  poor  little  chap,  come  what  will," 
he  muttered,  and  strode  on  to  Doctor  Prescott's 
house. 

Just  before  he  reached  it  a  horse  and  sulky  turned 
into  the  yard,  driven  rapidly  from  the  other  direction. 
Squire  Eben  hastened  his  steps,  and  reached  the 
south  house  door  before  the  doctor  entered.  He  was 
just  ascending  the  steps,  his  medicine-case  in  hand, 
when  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  turned  around. 

"  I  want  a  word  with  you  before  you  go  in,  doctor," 
called  the  Squire,  as  he  came  up. 

"  Good  -  evening,  Squire  Merritt,"  returned  the 
doctor,  bowing  formally  on  his  vantage-ground  of 
steps,  but  his  voice  bespoke  a  spiritual  as  well  as 
material  elevation. 

"  I  would  like  a  word  with  you,"  the  Squire  said 
again. 

"  Walk  into  the  house." 

"  No,  I  won't  come  in,  as  long  as  Fve  met  you.  I 
have  company  at  home.  I  haven't  much  to  say— 
The  Squire  stopped.  Jake  Noyes  was  coming  from 
the  barn,  swinging  a  lantern  ;  he  waited  until  he  had 
led  the  horse  away,  then  continued.  "It  is  just  as 
well  to  have  no  witnesses,"  he  said,  laughing.  "It 
is  about  that  affair  of  the  Edwards  mortgage." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  fencing  wariness  of 
intonation. 


150 


"  I  would  like  to  inquire  what  you're  going  to  do 
about  it,  if  you  have  no  objection.  I  have  reasons." 

The  doctor  gave  a  keen  look  at  him.  His  face,  as 
he  stood  on  the  steps,  was  on  a  level  with  the  Squire's. 
"I  am  going  to  take  the  house,  of  course,"  he  said, 
calmly. 

"  It  will  be  a  blow  to  Mrs.  Edwards  and  the  boy." 

"  It  will  be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
him,"  said  the  doctor,  with  the  same  clear  evenness. 
"That  sick  woman  and  boy  are  not  fit  to  have  the 
care  of  a  place.  I  shall  own  it,  and  rent  it  to 
them." 

Heat  in  controversy  is  sometimes  needful  to  con 
vince  one's  self  as  well  as  one's  adversary.  Doctor 
Prescott  needed  no  increase  of  warmth  to  further  his 
own  arguments,  so  conclusive  they  were  to  his  own 
mind. 

"  For  how  much,  if  I  may  ask  ?  I  am  interested 
for  certain  reasons." 

"  Seventy  dollars.  That  will  amount  to  the  in 
terest  money  they  pay  now  and  ten  dollars  over. 
The  extra  ten  will  be  much  less  than  repairs  and 
taxes.  They  will  be  gainers." 

"  What  will  you  take  for  that  mortgage?" 

"  Take  for  the  mortgage  ?" 

The  Squire  nodded. 

The  doctor  gave  another  of  his  keen  glances  at 
him.  "  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  take  anything 
for  it,"  he  said. 

"  Suppose  it  were  made  worth  your  while  ?" 

"  Nobody  would  be  willing  to  make  it  enough  worth 
my  while  to  influence  me,"  said  the  doctor.  "  My 
price  for  the  transfer  of  a  good  investment  is  what  it 
is  worth  to  me." 


151 


"  Well,  doctor,  what  is  it  worth  to  you  ?"  Squire 
Eben  said,  smiling. 

"  Fifteen  hundred  dollars,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  Squire  whistled. 

"  I  am  quite  aware  that  the  mortgage  is  for  a  thou 
sand  only,"  the  doctor  said,  and  yet  without  the 
slightest  meaning  of  apology,  "but  I  consider  when 
it  comes  to  relinquishing  it  that  it  is  worth  the  ad 
ditional  five  hundred.  I  must  be  just  to  myself. 
Then,  too,  Mr.  Edwards  owed  me  a  half-year's  in 
terest.  The  fifteen  hundred  would  cover  that,  of 
course." 

"  You  won't  take  any  less  ?" 

"Not  a  dollar." 

Squire  Eben  hesitated  a  second.  "You  know,  I 
own  that  strip  of  land  on  the  Dale  road,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  brook,"  he  said. 

The  doctor  nodded,  still  with  his  eyes  keenly  in 
tent. 

"There  are  three  good  house-lots;  that  house  of 
the  Edwardses  is  old  and  out  of  repair.  You'll  have 
to  spend  considerable  on  it  to  rent  it.  My  three  lots 
are  equal  to  that  one  house,  and  suppose  we  ex 
change.  You  take  that  land,  and  I  take  the  mort 
gage  on  the  Edwards  place." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about  ?"  Doc 
tor  Prescott  said,  sharply  ;  for  this  plain  proposition 
that  he  overreach  the  other  aroused  him  to  a  show  of 
fairness. 

Squire  Merritt  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  know  you'll  get 
the  best  of  the  bargain,"  he  returned. 

Then  the  doctor  waxed  suspicious.  This  readiness 
to  take  the  worst  of  a  bargain  while  perfectly  cogni 
zant  of  it  puzzled  him.  He  wondered  if  perchance 


152 


this  easy-going,  card-playing,  fishing  Squire  had,  af 
ter  all,  some  axe  of  policy  to  grind.  "  What  do  you 
expect  to  make  out  of  it  ?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"Nothing.  I  am  not  even  sure  that  I  have  any 
active  hope  of  a  higher  rate  of  interest  in  the  other 
world  for  it.  I  am  not  as  sound  in  the  doctrines  as 
you,  doctor."  Squire  Eben  laughed,  but  the  other 
turned  on  him  sternly. 

"  If  you  are  doing  this  for  the  sake  of  Abel  Ed- 
wards's  widow  and  her  children,  you  are  acting  from 
a  mistaken  sense  of  charity,  and  showing  poor  judg 
ment,"  said  he. 

Squire  Eben  laughed  again.  "  You  made  no  reply 
to  my  proposition,  doctor,"  he  said. 

"  You  are  in  earnest  ?" 

"lam;" 

"  You  understand  what  you  are  doing  ?"v 

"I  certainly  do.  I  am  giving  you  between  fifteen 
and  sixteen  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  land  for  a 
thousand." 

"There  is  no  merit  nor  charity  in  such  foolish 
measures  as  this,"  said  the  doctor,  half  suspicious 
that  there  was  more  behind  this,  and  not  put  to 
shame  but  aroused  to  a  sense  of  superiority  by  such 
drivelling  idiocy  of  benevolence. 

"  Dare  say  you're  right,  doctor,"  returned  Squire 
Eben.  "I  won't  even  cheat  you  out  of  the  ap 
proval  of  Heaven.  Will  you  meet  me  at  Means's 
office  to  morrow,  with  the  necessary  documents 
for  the  transfer  ?  We  had  better  go  around  to 
Mrs.  Edwards's  afterwards  and  inform  her,  I  sup 
pose." 

"I  will  meet  you  at  Means's  office  at  ten  o'clock 
to  -  morrow  morning,"  said  the  doctor,  shortly. 


153 


"  Good-evening,"  and  with  that  turned  on  his  heel. 
However,  when  he  had  opened  the  door  he  turned 
again  and  called  curtly  and  magisterially  after  Squire 
Eben  :  "  I  advise  you  to  cultivate  a  little  more  busi 
ness  foresight  for  the  sake  of  your  wife  and  child/' 
and  Squire  Eben  answered  back  : 

"Thank  you  —  thank  you,  doctor;  guess  you're 
right/'  and  then  began  to  whistle  like  a  boy  as  he 
went  down  the  avenue  of  pines. 

Through  lack  of  remunerative  industry,  and  easy 
going  habits,  his  share  of  the  old  Merritt  property 
had  dwindled  considerably ;  he  had  none  too  much 
money  to  spend  at  the  best,  and  now  he  had  bartered 
away  a  goodly  slice  of  his  paternal  acres  for  no  ade 
quate  worldly  return.  He  knew  it  all,  he  felt  a  half- 
whimsical  dismay  as  he  Avent  home,  and  yet  the 
meaning  which  underlies  the  letter  of  a  good  action 
was  keeping  his  heart  warm. 

When  he  reached  home  his  wife,  who  had  just 
finished  her  game,  slid  out  gently,  and  the  usual  fes 
tivities  began.  Colonel  Lamson,  warmed  with  punch 
and  good  -  fellowship  and  tobacco,  grew  brilliant  at 
cards,  and  humorously  reminiscent  of  old  jokes  be 
tween  the  games ;  John  Jennings  lagged  at  cards, 
but  flashed  out  now  and  then  with  fine  wit,  while  his 
fervently  working  brain  lit  up  his  worn  face  with  the 
light  of  youth.  The  lawyer,  who  drank  more  than 
the  rest,  played  better  and  better,  and  waxed  caustic 
in  speech  if  crossed.  As  for  the  Squire,  his  frank 
ness  increased  even  to  the  risk  of  self-praise.  Before 
the  evening  was  over  he  had  told  the  whole  story  of 
little  Jerome,  of  Doctor  Prescott  and  himself  and 
the  Edwards  mortgage.  The  three  friends  stared  at 
him  with  unsorted  cards  in  their  hands. 


154 


"  You  are  a  damned  fool  V  cried  Eliphalet  Means, 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"No,"  cried  Jennings,  "not  a  damned  fool,  but  a 
rare  fool/'  and  his  great  black  eyes,  in  their  mourn 
ful  hollows,  flashed  affectionately  at  Squire  Eben. 

"And  I  say  he's  a  damned  fool.  Men  live  in  this 
world/''  maintained  the  lawyer,  fiercely. 

"Men's  hearts  ought  to  be  out  of  the  world  if 
their  heads  are  in  it,"  affirmed  John  Jennings,  with 
a  beautiful  smile.  "  I  say  he's  a  rare  fool,  and  I 
would  that  all  the  wise  men  could  go  to  school  to 
such  a  fool  and  learn  wisdom  of  his  folly." 

Colonel  Jack  Lamson,  who  sat  at  the  Squire's  left, 
removed  his  pipe,  cleared  his  throat,  and  strove  to 
speak  in  vain.  Now  he  began  with  a  queer  stiffness 
of  his  lips,  while  his  purplish-red  flush  spread  to  the 
roots  of  his  thin  bristle  of  gray  hair. 

"It  reminds  me  of  a  story  I  heard.  No,  that  is 
another.  It  reminds  me — "  And  then  the  colonel 
broke  down  with  a  great  sob,  and  a  dash  of  his  sleeve 
across  his  eyes,  and  recovered  himself,  and  cried  out, 
chokingly,  "No,  111  be  damned  if  it  reminds  me  of 
anything  I've  ever  seen  or  heard  of,  for  I've  never 
seen  a  man  like  you,  Eben  !" 

And  with  that  he  slapped  his  cards  to  the  table, 
and  shook  the  Squire's  hand,  with  such  a  fury  of  af 
fectionate  enthusiasm  that  some  of  his  cards  flut 
tered  about  him  to  the  floor,  like  a  shower  of  leaves. 

As  for  Eliphalet  Means,  he  declared  again,  with 
vicious  emphasis,  "He's  a  damned  fool !"  then  rose 
up,  laid  his  cards  on  top  of  the  colonel's  scattered 
hand,  went  to  the  punch-bowl  and  helped  himself  to 
another  glass ;  then,  pipe  in  mouth,  went  up  to 
Squire  Merritt  and  gave  him  a  great  slap  on  his 


155 


back.  "You  are  a  damned  fool,  my  boy  \"  he  cried 
out,  holding  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  breathing  out  a 
great  cloud  of  smoke  with  the  words ;  "but  the  wife 
and  the  young  one  and  you  shall  never  want  a  bite 
or  a  sup,  nor  a  bed  nor  a  board,  on  account  of  it, 
while  old  'Liph  Means  has  a  penny  in  pocket." 

And  with  that  Eliphalet  Means,  who  was  old 
enough  to  be  the  Squire's  father,  and  loved  him  as 
he  would  have  loved  a  son,  went  back  to  his  seat  and 
dealt  the  cards  over. 


CHAPTER   XI 

and  ignorance  can  be  as  easily  hood 
winked  by  kindness  as  by  contumely. 

This  little  Jerome,  who  had  leaped,  under  the 
spur  of  necessity,  to  an  independence  of  understand 
ing  beyond  his  years,  allowed  himself  to  be  quite 
misled  by  the  Squire  as  to  his  attitude  in  the  matter 
of  the  mortgage.  In  spite  of  the  momentary  light 
reflected  from  the  doctor's  shrewder  intelligence 
which  had  flashed  upon  his  scheme,  the  Squire  was 
able  to  delude  him  with  a  renewed  belief  in  it,  after 
he  had  informed  him  of  the  transfer  of  the  mortgage- 
deed,  which  took  place  the  next  morning. 

"  I  decided  to  buy  that  wood-lot  of  your  father's, 
as  your  mother  was  willing/'  said  the  Squire  ;  "and 
as  I  had  not  the  money  in  hand  to  pay  down,  I  gave 
my  note  to  your  mother  for  it,  as  you  proposed  the 
doctor  should  do,  and  allowed  six  per  cent,  interest." 

Jerome  looked  at  him  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Aren't  you  as  willing 
to  take  my  note  as  the  doctor's  ?"  asked  the  Squire. 

"  Is  it  fair  ?"  asked  Jerome,  hesitatingly. 

"Fair  to  you?" 

"No;  to  you." 

"  Of  course  it  is  fair  enough  to  me.     Why  not  ?" 

"  The  doctor  didn't  think  it  was,"  said  the  boy, 
getting  more  and  more  bewildered. 

"  Why  didn't  he  ?" 


157 


"I  don't — know — "faltered  Jerome;  and  he  did 
not,  for  the  glimmer  of  light  which  he  had  got  from 
the  doctor's  worldly  wisdom  had  quite  failed  him. 
He  had  seen  quite  clearly  that  it  was  not  fair,  but 
now  he  could  not. 

"Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  it  is  fairer  for  me  than  for 
him,"  said  the  Squire,  easily.  "  Probably  he  had 
the  ready  money  ;  I  haven't  the  ready  money ;  that 
makes  all  the  difference.  Don't  you  see  it  does  ?" 

"Yes  —  sir,"  replied  Jerome,  hesitatingly,  and 
tried  to  think  he  saw ;  but  he  did  not.  A  mind  so 
young  and  immature  as  his  is  not  unlike  the  gaseous 
age  of  planets,  overlaid  with  great  shifting  masses 
of  vapor,  which  part  to  disclose  dazzling  flame-points 
and  incomparable  gleams,  then  close  again.  Only 
time  can  accomplish  a  nearer  balance  of  light  in 
minds  and  planets. 

Then,  too,  as  the  first  strain  of  unwonted  demands 
relaxed  a  little  through  use,  Jerome's  mental  speed, 
which  seemed  to  have  taken  him  into  manhood  at  a 
bound,  slackened,  and  he  even  fell  back  somewhat 
in  his  tracks.  He  was  still  beyond  what  he  had  ever 
been  before,  for  one  cannot  return  from  growth. 
He  would  never  be  as  much  of  a  child  again,  but  he 
was  more  of  a  child  than  he  had  been  yesterday. 

His  mother  also  had  been  instrumental  towards  re 
placing  him  in  his  old  ways.  Ann,  after  her  day  of 
crushed  apathy,  aroused  herself  somewhat.  When 
the  Squire,  the  lawyer,  and  Doctor  Prescott  came 
the  next  morning,  she  kept  them  waiting  outside 
while  she  put  on  her  best  cap.  She  had  a  view  of 
the  road  from  her  rocking-chair,  and  when  she  saw 
the  three  gentlemen  advancing  with  a  slow  curve  of 
progress  towards  her  gate,  which  betokened  an  en- 


158 


trance,  she  called  sharply  to  Elmira,  who  was  wash 
ing  dishes,  "  Go  into  the  bedroom  and  get  my  best 
cap,  quick/'  at  the  same  time  twitching  off  the  one 
upon  her  head. 

When  poor  little  Elmira  turned  and  stared,  her 
pretty  face  quite  pale,  thinking  her  mother  beside 
herself,  she  made  a  fierce,  menacing  gesture  with  her 
nervous  elbow,  and  spoke  again,  in  a  whisper,  lest 
the  approaching  guests  hear  :  "Why  don't  you  start  ? 
Take  this  old  cap  and  get  my  best  one,  quick  I"  And 
the  little  girl  scuttled  into  the  bedroom  just  as  the 
first  knock  came  on  the  door.  Ann  kept  the  three 
dignitaries  waiting  until  she  adjusted  her  cap  to  her 
liking,  and  the  knocks  had  been  several  times  re 
peated  before  she  sent  the  trembling  Elmira  to  ad 
mit  them  and  usher  them  into  the  best  parlor,  whither 
she  followed,  hitching  herself  through  the  entry  in 
her  chair,  and  disdainfully  refusing  all  offers  of  as 
sistance.  She  even  thrust  out  an  elbow  repellingly 
at  the  Squire,  who  had  sprung  forward  to  her  aid. 

"No,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  she;  "I  don't  need  any 
help  ;  I  always  go  around  the  house  so. .  I  ain't  help 
less." 

Ann,  when  she  had  brought  her  chair  to  a  stand, 
sat  facing  the  three  callers,  each  of  whose  salutations 
she  returned  with  a  curtly  polite  bow.  She  had  a 
desperate  sense  of  being  at  bay,  and  that  the  hands 
of  all  these  great  men,  whose  supremacy  she  acknowl 
edged  with  the  futile  uprearing  of  an  angry  woman, 
were  against  her.  She  eyed  the  lawyer,  Eliphalet 
Means,  with  particular  distrust.  She  had  always  held 
all  legal  proceedings  as  a  species  of  quagmire  to  en 
trap  the  innocent  and  unwary.  She  watched  while 
the  lawyer  took  some  documents  from  his  bag  and 


159 


laid  them  on  the  table.  "  I  won't  sign  a  thing,  no 
how,"  she  avowed  to  herself,  and  shut  her  mouth 
tight. 

Squire  Merritt  discovered  that  besides  dealing 
with  his  own  scruples  he  had  to  overcome  his  bene 
ficiary's. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  convince  Ann  that  she  was 
not  being  overreached  and  cheated.  She  seemed  ab 
solutely  incapable  of  understanding  the  transfer  of 
the  mortgage  note  from  Doctor  Prescott  to  Squire 
Merritt. 

"  I've  signed  one  mortgage/'  said  she,  firmly;  "I 
put  my  name  under  my  husband's.  I  ain't  goin'  to 
sign  another." 

"  But  nobody  wants  you  to  sign  anything,  Mrs. 
Edwards.  The  mortgage  note  is  simply  transferred 
to  Squire  Merritt  here.  We  only  want  you  to  under 
stand  it,"  said  Lawyer  Means.  He  had  a  curiously 
impersonal  manner  of  dealing  witli  women,  being 
wont  to  say  that  only  a  man  who  expected  good  sense 
in  womenkind  was  surprised  when  he  did  not  find  it. 

"I  ain't  goin' to  put  two  mortgages  on  this  place," 
said  Ann,  fronting  him  with  the  utter  stupidity  of 
obstinacy. 

"Let  me  explain  it  to  you,  Mrs.  Edwards,"  said 
Eliphalet  Means,  with  no  impatience.  He  regarded 
a  woman  as  so  incontrovertibly  a  patience-tryer,  from 
the  laws  of  creation,  that  he  would  as  soon  have 
waxed  impatient  with  the  structural  order  of  things. 
He  endeavored  to  explain  matters  with  imperturbable 
persistency,  but  Ann  was  still  unconvinced. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  sign  my  name  to  any  other  mort 
gage,"  said  she. 

Jerome,  who  had  stood  listening  in  the  door,  slid 


160 


up  to  his  mother  and  touched  her  arm.  "Oh,  moth 
er,,"  he  whispered,  ' '  I  know  all  about  it — it's  all 
right  r 

Ann  gave  him  a  thrust  with  a  little  sharp  elbow. 
"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  she  cried.  "I'm 
here  to  look  out  for  you  and  your  sister,  and  take 
care  of  what  little  we've  got,  an'  I'm  goin'  to.  Go 
out  an'  tend  to  your  work." 

"  Oh,  mother,  do  let  me  stay  !" 

"  Go  right  along,  I  tell  you."  And  Jerome,  who 
was  the  originator  of  all  this,  went  out  helplessly, 
slighted  and  indignant.  He  did  think  the  Squire 
might  have  interceded  for  him  to  stay,  knowing  what 
he  knew.  Even  youth  has  its  disadvantages. 

But  Squire  Eben  stood  somewhat  aloof,  looking  at 
the  small,  frail,  pugnacious  woman  in  the  rocking- 
chair  with  perplexity  and  growing  impatience.  He 
wanted  to  go  fishing  that  morning,  and  the  vision  of 
the  darting  trout  in  their  still,  clear  pool  was  before 
him,  like  a  vision  of  his  own  earthly  paradise.  He 
gave  a  despairing  glance  at  Doctor  Prescott,  who  had 
hitherto  said  little.  "  Can't  you  convince  her  it  is 
all  right  ?  She  knows  you  better  than  the  rest  of 
us,"  he  whispered. 

Doctor  Prescott  nodded,  arose — he  had  been  sit 
ting  apart — went  to  Mrs.  Edwards,  and  touched  her 
shoulder.  "  Mrs.  Edwards,"  said  he — Ann  gave  a, 
terrified  yet  wholly  unyielding  flash  of  her  black  eyes 
at  him — "Mrs.  Edwards,  will  you  please  attend  to 
what  we  have  come  to  tell  you.  I  have  transferred 
the  mortgage  note  given  me  by  your  late  husband 
to  Squire  Eben  Merritt ;  there  is  nothing  for  you  to 
sign.  You  will  simply  pay  the  interest  money  to 
him,  instead  of  to  me." 


161 


"  You  can  tear  me  to  pieces,  if  you  want  to,"  said 
Ann,  "but  I  won't  sign  away  what  little  my  poor 
husband  left  to  me  and  my  children,  for  you  or  any 
other  man." 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  the  doctor. 

Ann  never  stirred  her  head. 

"Look  at  me." 

Ann  looked. 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  listen  and  you 
understand.  I  can't  waste  any  more  time  here. 
Squire  Merritt  has  bought  that  mortgage  which  your 
husband  gave  me,  and  paid  me  for  it  in  land.  You 
have  simply  nothing  to  do  with  it,  except  to  under 
stand.  Nobody  wants  you  to  sign  anything." 

Ann  looked  at  him  with  some  faint  light  of  com 
prehension  through  her  wild  impetus  of  resistance. 
"  Fd  ruther  it  would  stay  the  way  it  was  before," 
said  she.  "  My  husband  gave  you  the  mortgage. 
He  thought  you  were  trustworthy.  I'd  jest  as  soon 
pay  you  interest  money  as  Squire  Merritt." 

Then  Eliphalet  Means  spoke  dryly,  still  with  that 
utter  patience  of  preparation  and  expectation:  "If 
Doctor  Prescott  retains  this  mortgage  he  intends  to 
foreclose." 

Ann  looked  at  him,  and  then  at  Doctor  Prescott. 
She  gasped,  "  Foreclose  !" 

Doctor  Prescott  nodded. 

"  You  mean  to  foreclose  ?  You  mean  to  take  this 
place  away  from  us  ?"  Ann  cried,  shrilly.  "  You  with 
all  you've  got,  and  we  a  widow  and  orphans  !  And 
you  callin'  yourself  a  good  man  an'  a  pillar  of  the 
sanctuary  !" 

Doctor  Prescott's  face  hardened.  "  Your  husband 
owed  me  for  a  half-year's  interest,"  he  began,  calmly. 


162 


"My  husband  didn't  owe  you  any  interest  money. 
He  paid  you  in  work  and  wood." 

"  That  was  for  medical  attendance/' proceeded  the 
doctor,,  imperturbably.  "He  owed  me  half  a  year's 
interest.  I  considered  it  best  for  your  interests,  as 
well  as  mine,  to  foreclose,  and  should  have  done  so 
had  not  Squire  Merritt  taken  the  matter  out  of  my 
hands.  I  should  advise  him  to  a  like  measure,  but 
he  is  his  own  best  judge." 

"Squire  Merritt  will  not  foreclose,"  said  Eliphalet 
Means ;  "  and  he  will  be  easy  about  the  payments." 

"Well,"  said  Ann,  with  a  strange,  stony  look,  "I 
guess  I  understand.  I'm  satisfied." 

Doctor  Prescott  gathered  up  his  medicine-chest, 
bade  the  others  a  gruff,  ceremonious  good-morning, 
and  went  out.  His  sulky  had  been  drawn  up  before 
the  gate  for  some  time,  and  Jake  Noyes  had  been 
lounging  about  the  yard. 

The  lawyer  and  the  Squire  lingered,  as  they  had 
yet  the  business  regarding  the  sale  of  the  woodland 
to  arrange. 

Curiously  enough,  Ann  was  docile  as  one  could 
wish  about  that.  Whether  her  previous  struggle  had 
exhausted  her  or  whether  she  began  to  feel  some  con 
fidence  in  her  advisers,  they  could  not  tell.  She 
made  no  difficulty,  but  after  all  was  adjusted  she 
looked  at  the  lawyer  with  a  shrewd,  sharp  gleam  in 
her  eyes. 

"Doctor  Prescott  can't  get  his  claws  on  it  now, 
anyhow,"  she  said ;  "  and  he  always  wanted  it, 
'cause  it  joined  his." 

The  Squire  and  the  lawyer  looked  at  each  other. 
The  Squire  with  humorous  amazement,  the  lawyer 
with  a  wink  and  glance  of  wise  reminder,  as  much 


163 


as   to   say :  "  You   know  what  I  have  always  said 
about  women.     Here  is  a  woman." 

Jerome  was  digging  out  in  his  garden-patch,  and 
Elmira,  in  her  blue  sunbonnet,  was  standing,  full 
of  scared  questioning,  before  him,  when  the  Squire 
came  lounging  up  the  slope  and  reported  as  before 
said,  to  the  convincing  of  the  boy  in  innocent  cre 
dulity. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  laid  hold  on  Elmira's 
little  cotton  sleeve  and  pulled  her  up  to  her  brother, 
and  stood  before  them  with  a  kindly  hand  on  a 
shoulder  of  each,  smiling  down  at  them  with  infinite 
good-humor  and  protection. 

"Don't  you  worry  now,  children,"  he  said.  "Be 
good  and  mind  your  mother,  and  you'll  get  along  all 
right.  We'll  manage  about  the  interest  money,  and 
there'll  be  meal  in  the  barrel  and  a  roof  over  your 
heads  as  long  as  you  want  it,  according  to  the  Script 
ures,  I'll  guarantee." 

With  that  Squire  Eben  gave  each  a  shake,  to  con 
ceal,  maybe,  the  tenderness  of  pity  in  him,  which  he 
might,  in  his  hearty  and  merry  manhood,  have  ac 
counted  somewhat  of  a  shame  to  reveal,  as  well  as 
tears  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  was  gone  down  the  hill 
with  a  great  laugh. 

Elmira  looked  after  him.  "Ain't  he  good?"  she 
whispered.  But  as  for  Jerome,  he  stood  trembling 
and  quivering  and  looking  down  at  a  print  the 
Squire's  great  boot  had  made  in  the  soft  mould. 
When  Elmira  had  gone,  he  went  down  on  his  knees 
and  kissed  it  passionately. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Now  the  warfare  of  life  had  fairly  begun  for  little 
Jerome  Edwards.  Up  to  this  time,  although  in 
sorry  plight  enough  as  far  as  material  needs  went — 
scantily  ciad,  scantily  fed,  and  worked  hard — he  had 
as  yet  only  followed  at  an  easy  pace,  or  skirted  with 
merry  play  the  march  of  the  toilers  of  the  world. 
Now  he  was  in  the  rank  and  file,  enlisted  thereto  by 
a  stern  Providence,  and  must  lose  his  life  for  the  sake 
of  living,  like  the  rest.  No  more  idle  hours  in  the 
snug  hollow  of  the  rock,  where  he  seemed  to  pause 
like  a  bee  on  the  sweets  of  existence  itself  that  he 
might  taste  them  fully,  were  there  for  Jerome.  Very 
few  chances  he  had  for  outspeeding  his  comrades  in 
any  but  the  stern  and  sober  race  of  life,  for  this  little 
Mercury  had  to  shear  the  wings  from  his  heels  of 
youthful  sport  and  take  to  the  gait  of  labor.  Very 
seldom  he  could  have  one  of  his  old  treasure  hunts 
in  swamps  and  woods,  unless,  indeed,  he  could  per 
chance  make  a  labor  and  a  gain  of  it.  Jerome  found 
that  sassafras,  and  snakeroot,  and  various  other  aro 
matic  roots  and  herbs  of  the  wilds  about  his  house 
had  their  money  value.  There  was  an  apothecary  in 
the  neighboring  village  of  Dale  who  would  purchase 
them  of  him ;  at  the  cheapest  of  rates,  it  is  true — a 
penny  or  so  for  a  whole  peck  measure,  or  a  sheaf,  of 
the  largess  of  summer — but  every  penny  counted. 
Poor  Jerome  did  not  care  so  much  about  his  wood- 


165 


land  sorties  after  they  were  made  a  matter  of  pence 
and  shillings,  sorely  as  he  needed,  and  much  as  he 
wished  for,  the  pence  and  shillings.  The  sense  was 
upon  him,  a  shamed  and.  helpless  one,  of  selling  his 
birthright.  Jerome  had  in  the  natural  beauty  of  the 
earth  a  budding  delight,  which  was  a  mystery  and  a 
holiness  in  itself.  It  was  the  first  love  of  his  boyish 
heart ;  he  had  taken  the  green  woods  and  fields  for 
his  sweetheart,  and  must  now  put  her  to  only  sordid 
uses,  to  her  degradation  and  his. 

Sometimes,  in  a  curious  rebellion  against  what  he 
scarcely  knew,  he  would  return  home  without  a  sal 
able  thing  in  hand,  nothing  but  a  pretty  and  useless 
collection  of  wild  flowers  and  sedges,  little  swamp- 
apples,  and  perhaps  a  cast  bird-feather  or  two,  and 
meet  his  mother's  stern  reproof  with  righteously  un 
daunted  front. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said  once,  looking  at  her  with 
a  meaning  she  could  not  grasp  ;  nor,  indeed,  could 
he  fathom  it  himself.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  sell  every 
thing;  if  I  do  I'll  have  to  sell  myself." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean,"  said  his  moth 
er,  sharply.  • 

"I  mean  I'm  goin'  to  keep  some  things  myself," 
said  Jerome,  and  pattered  up  to  his  chamber  to  stow 
away  his  treasures,  with  his  mother's  shrill  tirade 
about  useless  truck  following  him.  Ann  was  a  good 
taskmistress ;  there  were,  indeed,  great  powers  of 
administration  in  the  keen,  alert  mind  in  that  little 
frail  body.  Given  a  poor  house  encumbered  by  a 
mortgage,  a  few  acres  of  stony  land,  and  two  chil 
dren,  the  elder  only  fourteen,  she  worked  miracles 
almost.  Jerome  had  shown  uncommon,  almost  im 
probable,  ability  in  his  difficulties  when  Abel  had 


166 


disappeared  and  her  strength  had  failed  her,  but  af 
terwards  her  little  nervous  feminine  clutch  on  the 
petty  details  went  far  towards  saving  the  ship. 

Had  it  not  been  for  his  mother,  Jerome  could  not 
have  carried  out  his  own  plans.  Work  as  manfully 
as  he  might,  he  could  not  have  paid  Squire  Merritt 
his  first  instalment  of  interest  money,  which  was 
promptly  done. 

It  was  due  the  1st  of  November,  and,  a  day  or 
two  before,  Squire  Merritt,  tramping  across  lots,  over 
the  fields,  through  the  old  plough  ridges  and  corn 
stubble,  with  some  plump  partridges  in  his  bag  and 
his  gun  over  shoulder,  made  it  in  his  way  to  stop  at 
the  Edwards  house  and  tell  Ann  that  she  must  not 
concern  herself  if  the  interest  money  were  not  ready 
at  the  minute  it  was  due. 

But  Ann  laid  down  her  work  —  she  was  binding 
shoes — straightened  herself  as  if  her  rocking-chair 
were  a  throne  and  she  an  empress,  and  looked  at  him 
with  an  inscrutable  look  of  pride  and  suspicion.  The 
truth  was  that  she  immediately  conceived  the  idea 
that  this  great  fair -haired  Squire,  with  his  loud, 
sweet  voice,  and  his  loud,  frank  laugh  and  pleas 
ant  blue  eyes,  concealed  beneath  a  smooth  exterior 
depths  of  guile.  She  exchanged,  as  it  were,  nods  of 
bitter  confidence  with  herself  to  the  effect  that  Squire 
Merritt  was  trying  to  make  her  put  off  paying  the 
interest  money,  and  pretending  to  be  very  kind  and 
obliging,  in  order  that  he  might  the  sooner  get  his 
clutches  on  the  whole  property. 

All  the  horizon  of  this  poor  little  feminine  Ishmael 
seemed  to  her  bitter  fancy  to  be  darkened  with  hands 
against  her,  and  she  sat  on  a  constant  watch-tower  of 
suspicion. 


167 


"  Elmira,"  said  she,  "  bring  me  that  stockin'." 

Elraira,  who  also  was  binding  shoes,  sitting  on  a 
stool  before  the  scanty  fire,  rose  quickly  at  her  moth 
er's  command,  went  into  the  bedroom,  and  emerged 
with  an  old  white  yarn  stocking  hanging  heavily  from 
her  hand. 

"  Empty  it  on  the  table  and  show  Squire  Mer 
ritt,"  ordered  her  mother,  in  a  tone  as  if  she  com 
manded  the  resources  of  the  royal  treasury  to  be  dis 
played. 

Elmira  obeyed.  She  inverted  the  stocking,  and 
from  it  jingled  a  shower  of  coin  into  a  pitiful  little 
heap  on  the  table. 

"  There  !"  said  Ann,  pointing  at  it  with  a  little 
bony  finger.  The  smallest  coins  of  the  realm  went 
to  make  up  the  little  pile,  and  the  Lord  only  knew 
how  she  and  her  children  had  grubbed  them  togeth 
er.  Every  penny  there  represented  more  than  the 
sweat  of  the  brow  :  the  sweat  of  the  heart. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt,  with  some  dim  perception  of 
the  true  magnitude  and  meaning  of  that  little  hoard, 
gained  partly  through  Ann's  manner,  partly  through 
his  own  quickness  of  sympathy,  fairly  started  as  he 
looked  at  it  and  her. 

"  There's  twenty-one  dollars,  all  but  two  shillings, 
there,"  said  Ann,  with  hard  triumph.  "The  two 
shillings  Jerome  is  goin'  to  have  to-night.  He's  been 
splittin'  of  kindlin'-wood,  after  school,  for  your  sister, 
this  week,  and  she's  goin'  to  pay  him  the  same  as  she 
did  for  weedin'.  You  can  take  this  now,  if  you  want 
to,  or  wait  and  have  it  all  together." 

"  I'll  wait,  thank  you,"  replied  Eben  Merritt.  For 
the  moment  he  felt  actually  dismayed  and  ashamed 
at  the  sight  of  his  ready  interest  money.  It  was  al- 


168 


most  like  having  a  good  deed  thrust  back  in  his  face 
and  made  of  no  account.  He  had  scarcely  expected 
any  payment,  certainly  none  so  full  and  prompt  as 
this. 

"I  thought  I'd  let  you  see  you  hadn't  any  cause  to 
feel  afraid  you  wouldn't  get  it,"  said  Ann,  with  dig 
nity.  "Elmira,  you  can  put  the  money  back  in  the 
stockin'  now,  and  put  the  stockin'  back  under  the 
feather-bed." 

Squire  Merritt  felt  like  a  great  school-boy  before 
this  small,  majestic  woman.  "I  did  not  feel  afraid, 
Mrs.  Edwards/'  he  said,  awkwardly. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  you  might,"  said  she,  scorn 
fully ;  "people  didn't  seem  to  think  we  could  do 
anything." 

"  All  I  wonder  at  is,"  said  the  Squire,  rallying  a 
little,  "how  you  managed  to  get  so  much  money 
together." 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  We've 
bound  shoes,  Elmira  air  me,  for  one  thing.  We've 
took  all  they  would  give  us.  That  wasn't  many,  for 
the  regular  customers  had  to  come  first,  and  I  didn't 
do  any  in  Abel's  lifetime — that  is,  not  after  I  was 
sick.  I  used  to  a  while  before  that.  Abel  wouldn't 
let  me  when  we  were  first  married,  but  he  had  to  come 
to  it.  Men  can't  do  all  they're  willin'  to.  I  shouldn't 
have  done  anything  but  dress  in  silk,  set  an'  rock, 
an'  work  scallops  an'  eyelets  in  cambric  pocket-hand 
kerchiefs,  if  Abel  had  had  his  say.  After  I  was  sick 
I  quit  workin'  on  boots,  because  the  doctor  he  said 
it  might  hurt  the  muscles  of  my  back  to  pull  the  nee 
dle  through  the  leather ;  but  there's  somethin'  besides 
muscles  in  backs  to  be  thought  of  when  it  comes  to 
keepin'  body  an'  soul  together.  Two  days  after  the 


169 


funeral  I  sent  Jerome  up  to  Cyrus  Robinson,  and  told 
him  to  ask  him  if  he'd  got  some  extra  shoes  to  bind 
and  close,  and  he  come  home  with  some.  Elmira 
and  me  bound,,  and  Jerome  closed,  and  we  took  our 
pay  in  groceries.  The  shoes  have  fed  us,  with  what 
we  got  out  of  the  garden.  Then  Elmira  and  me  have 
braided  mats  and  pieced  quilts  and  sewed  three  rag 
carpets,  and  Elmira  picked  huckleberries  and  black 
berries  in  season,  and  sold  them  to  your  wife  and  Miss 
Camilla  and  the  doctor's  wife ;  and  Lawyer  Means 
bought  lots  of  her,  and  the  woman  that  keeps  house 
for  John  Jennings  bought  a  lot.  Elmira  picked  bay- 
berries,  too,  and  sold  'em  to  the  shoemaker  for  tallow  ; 
she  sold  a  lot  in  Dale.  Elmira  did  a  good  deal  of  the 
weeding  in  your  sister's  garden,  so's  to  leave  Jerome's 
time  clear.  Then  once  when  the  doctor's  wife  had 
company  she  went  over  to  help  wash  dishes,  and  she 
give  her  three  an'  sixpence  for  that.  Elmira  said  she 
give  it  dreadful  kind  of  private,  and  looked  round  to  be 
sure  the  doctor  wa'n't  within  gunshot.  She  give  her 
a  red  merino  dress  of  hers,  too,  but  she  kept  her  till 
after  nightfall,  and  smuggled  her  out  of  the  back 
door,  with  it  all  done  up  under  her  arm,  lest  the  doc 
tor  should  see.  They  say  she's  got  dresses  she  won't 
never  put  on  her  back  again — silks  an'  satins  an'  wool 
lens — because  she's  outgrown  'em,  an'  they're  all  hang- 
in'  up  in  closets  gettin'  mothy,  an'  the  doctor  won't 
let  her  give  'em  away.  But  this  dress  she  give  Elmira 
wa'n't  give  away,  for  I  sent  her  back  next  day  to  do 
some  extra  work  to  pay  for  it.  I  ain't  beholden  to 
nobody.  Elmira  swept  and  dusted  the  settin'-roorn 
and  the  spare  chamber,  and  washed  the  breakfast  an* 
dinner  dishes,  and  I  guess  she  paid  for  that  old  dress 
ample.  It  had  been  laid  up  with  camphor  in  a  cedar 


170 


chest,  but  it  had  some  moth  holes  in  it.  It  wa'n't 
worth  such  a  great  sight,  after  all. 

"  Jerome  he's  worked  smart,  if  I  have  had  to  drive 
him  to  it  sometimes.  He's  wed  and  dug  potatoes 
everywhere  he  could  git  a  chance  ;  he's  helped  'bout 
hayin',  an'  he's  split  wood.  He's  sold  some  herbs  and 
roots,  too,  over  to  Dale.  Jake  Noyes  he  put  him  up 
to  that.  He  come  in  here  one  night  an'  talked  to  him 
real  sensible.  '  There's  money  'nough  layin'  round 
loose  right  under  your  face  an'  eyes,'  says  he  ;  '  all 
the  trouble  is  you're  apt  to  walk  right  past,  with  your 
nose  up  in  the  air.  The  scent  for  work  an'  wages 
ain't  up  in  the  air/  says  he;  'it's  on  the  ground.' 
Jerome  he  listened  real  sharp,  an'  the  next  day  he 
went  off  an'  got  a  good  passel  of  boneset  an'  thorough- 
wort  an'  hardback,  an'  carried  it  over  to  Dale,  an'  sold 
it  for  a  shilling. 

"  Elmira  has  done  some  spinnin',  too ;  I  can't  spin 
much,  but  she's  done  well  enough.  Your  wife  wants 
some  linen  pillow-shifts.  Elmira  can  do  the  weavin', 
I  guess,  an'  we  can  make  'em  up  together.  I've  got 
a  job  to  make  some  fine  shirts  for  you,  too.  Your 
wife  come  over  to  see  about  it  this  week.  I  dun'no' 
but  she  was  gettiii'  kind  of  afraid  you  wouldn't  git 
your  interest  money  no  other  way ;  but  she  needn't 
have  been  exercised  about  it,  if  she  was.  We  got 
this  interest  together  without  your  shirts,  an'  I  guess 
we  can  the  next.  It's  been  harder  work  than  many 
folks  in  this  town  know  anything  about,  but  we've 
done  it."  Ann  tossed  her  head  with  indescribable 
pride  and  bitterness.  There  was  scorn  of  fate  itself 
in  the  toss  of  that  little  head,  with  its  black  lace 
cap  and  false  front,  and  her  speech  also  was  an  ha 
rangue,  reproachful  and  defiant,  against  fate,  not 


171 


against  her  earthly  creditor;  that  she  would  have 
disdained. 

Squire  Eben,  however,  fully  appreciating  that,  and 
taking  the  pictures  of  pitiful  feminine  and  childish 
toil  which  she  brought  before  his  fancy  as  a  shame 
to  his  great  stalwart  manhood,  spending  its  strength 
in  hunting  and  fishing  and  card-playing,  looked  at 
the  woman  binding  shoes  with  painful  jerks  of  little 
knotted  hands  —  for  she  ceased  not  her  work  one 
minute  for  her  words — and  took  the  bitter  reproach 
and  triumphant  scorn  in  her  tone  and  gesture  for 
himself  alone. 

He  felt  ashamed  of  himself,  in  his  great  hunting- 
boots  splashed  with  swamp  mud,  his  buckskins  marred 
with  woodland  thorn  and  thicket,  but  not  a  mark  of 
honest  toil  about  him.  Had  he  been  in  fine  broad 
cloth  he  would  not  have  felt  so  humiliated ;  for  the 
useless  labor  of  play  cuts  a  sorrier  figure  in  the  face 
of  genuine  work  for  the  great  ends  of  life  than  idle 
ness  itself.  He  would  not  have  been  half  so  dis 
graced  by  nothing  at  all  in  hand  as  by  that  bag  of 
game ;  and  as  for  the  money  in  that  old  stocking 
under  the  feather-bed,  it  seemed  to  him  like  the  fruits 
of  his  own  dishonesty. 

The  impulse  was  strong  upon  him,  then  and  there, 
to  declare  that  he  would  take  none  of  that  hoard. 

"  Now  look  here,  Mrs.  Edwards,"  said  he,  fairly 
coloring  like  a  girl  as  he  spoke,  and  smiling  uneasily, 
"  I  don't  want  that  money." 

Ann  looked  at  him  with  the  look  of  one  who  is 
stung,  and  yet  incredulous.  Elmira  gave  a  little 
gasp  of  delight.  "  Oh,  mother  !"  she  cried. 

"Keep  still!"  ordered  her  mother.  "I  dun'no' 
what  you  mean,"  she  said  to  Squire  Merritt. 


172 


The  Squire's  smile  deepened,  but  he  looked  fright 
ened  ;  his  eyes  fell  before  hers.  "  Why,  what  I  say — 
I  don't  want  this  money,  this  time.  I  have  all  I 
need.  Keep  it  over  till  the  next  half." 

Squire  Ebeii  Merritt  had  a  feeling  as  if  something 
actually  tangible,  winged  and  clawed  and  beaked, 
and  flaming  with  eyes,  pounced  upon  him.  He  fair 
ly  shrank  back,  so  fierce  was  Ann's  burst  of  indigna 
tion  ;  it  produced  a  sense  of  actual  contact. 

"  Keep  it  till  next  half  ?"  repeated  Ann.  "  Keep 
it  till  next  half  ?  What  should  we  keep  it  till  next 
half  for,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  It's  your  money,  ain't 
it  ?  We  don't  want  it ;  we  ain't  beggars ;  we  don't 
need  it.  I  see  through  you,  Squire  Eben  Merritt ; 
you  think  I  don't,  but  I  do." 

"  I  fear  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  the  Squire 
said,  helplessly. 

"  I  see  through  you,"  repeated  Ann.  She  had  re 
verted  to  her  first  suspicion  that  his  design  was  to 
gain  possession  of  the  whole  property  by  letting  the 
unpaid  interest  accumulate,  but  that  poor  Squire 
Eben  did  not  know.  He  gave  up  all  attempts  to 
understand  this  woman's  mysterious  innuendoes,  and 
took  the  true  masculine  method  of  departure  from 
an  uncomfortable  subject  at  right  angles,  with  no 
further  ado. 

He  opened  his  game-bag  and  held  up  a  brace  of  fat 
partridges.  "  Well," he  said,  laughing,  "I  want  you 
to  see  what  luck  I've  had  shooting,  Mrs.  Edwards. 
I've  bagged  eight  of  these  fellows  to-day." 

But  Ann  could  not  make  a  mental  revolution  so 
easily.  She  gave  a  half  -  indifferent,  half  -  scornful 
squint  at  the  partridges.  "  I  dun'no'  much  about 
shootin',"  said  she,  shortly.  Ann  had  always  been, 


173 


in  her  own  family,  a  passionate  woman,  but  among 
outsiders  she  had  borne  herself  with  dignified  polite 
ness  and  formal  gentility,  clothing,  as  it  were,  her 
intensity  of  spirit  with  a  company  garb.  Now,  since 
her  terrible  trouble  had  come  upon  her,  this  garb 
had  often  slipped  aside,  and  revealed,  with  the  inde 
cency  of  affliction,  the  struggling  naked  spirit  of  the 
woman  to  those  from  whom  she  had  so  carefully  hid 
den  it. 

Once  Ann  would  not  have  believed  that  she  would 
have  so  borne  herself  towards  Squire  Merritt.  The 
Squire  laid  the  partridges  on  the  table.  "  I  am  go 
ing  to  leave  these  for  your  supper,  Mrs.  Edwards/' 
he  said,  easily ;  but  he  quaked  a  little,  for  this  wom 
an  seemed  to  repel  gifts  like  blows. 

"  Thank  ye/'  said  Ann,  dryly,  "but  I  guess  you'd 
better  take  'em  home  to  your  wife.  I've  got  a  good 
deal  cooked  up." 

Elmira  made  a  little  expressive  sound ;  she  could 
not  help  it.  She  gave  one  horrified,  wondering  look 
at  her  mother.  Not  a  morsel  of  cooked  food  was 
there  on  the  bare  pantry  shelves.  By-and-by  a  little 
Indian  meal  and  water  would  be  boiled  for  supper. 
There  were  some  vegetables  in  the  cellar,  otherwise 
no  food  in  the  house.  Ann  lied. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  then  displayed  what  would 
have  been  tact  in  a  keenly  calculating  and  analytic 
nature.  ' '  Oh,  throw  them  out  for  the  dogs,  if  you 
don't  want  them,  Mjs.  Edwards,"  he  returned,  gay- 
ly.  (f  I've  got  more  than  my  wife  can  use  here.  We 
are  getting  rather  tired  of  partridges,  we  have  had 
so  many.  I  stopped  at  Lawyer  Means's  on  my  way 
here  and  left  a  pair  for  him." 

A  sudden   change   came   over   Ann's   face.     She 


174 


beamed  with  a  return  of  her  fine  company  manners. 
She  even  smiled.  " Thank  ye,"  said  she  ;  "then  I 
will  take  them,  if  you  are  sure  you  ain't  robbing 
yourself." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Squire — "not  at  all,  Mrs. 
Edwards.  You'd  better  baste  them  well  when  you 
cook  them."  Then  he  took  his  leave,  with  many 
exchanges  of  courtesies,  and  went  his  way,  wonder 
ing  what  had  worked  this  change ;  for  a  simple,,  be 
nevolent  soul  can  seldom  gauge  its  own  wisdom  of 
diplomacy. 

Squire  Eben  did  not  dream  that  his  gift  to  one  who 
was  not  needy  had  enabled  him  to  give  to  one  who 
was,  by  establishing  a  sort  of  equality  among  the  re 
cipients,  which  had  overcome  her  proud  scruples. 
On  the  way  home  he  met  Jerome,  scudding  along  in 
the  early  dusk,  having  finished  his  task  early. 
"Hurry  home,  boy,"  he  called  out,  in  that  great 
kind  voice  which  Jerome  so  loved — "  hurry  home  ; 
you've  got  something  good  for  supper  !"  and  he  gave 
the  boy,  ducking  low  before  him  with  the  love  and 
gratitude  which  had  overcome  largely  the  fierce  and 
callous  pride  in  his  young  heart,  a  hearty  slap  on  the 
shoulder  as  he  went  past. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THEEE  was  a  good  district  school  in  the  village, 
and  Jerome,  before  his  father's  disappearance,  had 
attended  it  all  the  year  round  ;  now  he  went  only  in 
winter.  Jerome  rose  at  four  o'clock  in  the  dark  win 
ter  mornings,  and  went  to  bed  at  ten,  getting  six 
hours7  sleep.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  was  a  hardy 
boy,  with  a  wirily  pliant  frame,  adapting  itself,  with 
no  lesions,  to  extremes  of  temperature  and  toil,  even 
to  extremes  of  mental  states.  In  spite  of  all  his  hard 
ships,  in  spite  of  scanty  food,  Jerome  thrived ;  he 
grew ;  he  began  to  fill  out  better  his  father's  clothes, 
to  which  he  had  succeeded.  The  first  time  Jerome 
wore  his  poor  father's  best  coat  to  school — Ann  had 
set  in  the  buttons  so  it  folded  about  him  in  ludicrous 
fashion,  bringing  the  sleeves  forward  and  his  arms 
apparently  into  the  middle  of  his  chest — one  of  the 
big  boys  and  two  big  girls  at  his  side  laughed  at 
him,  the  boy  with  open  jeers,  the  girls  with  covert 
giggles  behind  their  hands.  They  were  standing  in 
front  of  the  school-house  at  the  top  of  the  long  hill 
when  Jerome  was  ascending  it  with  Elmira.  It  was 
late  and  cold,  and  only  these  three  scholars  were 
outside.  The  girls,  who  were  pretty  and  coquet 
tish,  had  detained  this  great  boy,  who  was  a  man 
grown. 

Jerome  went  up  the  long  hill  under  this  fire  of 
covert  ridicule.  Elmira,  behind  him,  began  to  cry, 


176 


holding  up  one  little  shawled  arm  like  a  wing  before 
her  face.  Jerome  never  lowered  his  proud  head; 
his  unwinking  black  eyes  stared  straight  ahead  at 
the  three ;  his  face  was  deadly  white ;  his  hands 
twitched  at  his  sides. 

The  great  boy  was  'Lisha  Eobinson  ;  the  girls  were 
the  pretty  twin  daughters  of  a  farmer  living  three 
miles  away,  who  had  just  brought  them  to  school  on 
his  ox-sled.  Their  two  sweet,  rosy  faces,  full  of  piti 
less  childish  merriment  for  him,  and  half-unconscious 
maiden  wiles  towards  the  young  man  at  their  side, 
towards  whom  they  leaned  involuntarily  as  they  tit 
tered,  aroused  Jerome  to  a  worse  frenzy  than  'Lisha's 
face  with  its  coarse  leer. 

All  three  started  back  a  little  as  he  drew  near; 
there  was  something  in  his  unwinking  eyes  which 
was  intimidating.  However,  'Lisha  had  his  courage 
to  manifest  before  these  girls.  "  Say,  Jerome,"  he 
shouted — "say,  Jerome,  got  any  room  to  spare  in 
that  coat  ?  'cause  Abigail  Mack  is  freezin'." 

((  Go  'long,  'Lisha/'  cried  Abigail,  sputtering  with 
giggles,  and  giving  the  young  man  a  caressing  push 
with  her  elbow. 

'Lisha,  thus  encouraged,  essayed  further  wit. 
"Say,  Jerome,  s'pose  you  can  fill  out  that  coat  of 
yours  any  quicker  if  I  give  ye  half  my  dinner  ? 
Here's  a  half  a  pie  I  can  spare.  Reckon  you  don't 
have  much  to  eat  down  to  your  house,  'cept  chicken- 
fodder,  and  that  ain't  very  fat'nin'." 

Jerome  came  up.  All  at  once  through  the  glow 
of  his  black  eyes  flashed  that  spiritual  lightning,  evi 
dent  when  purpose  is  changed  to  action.  The  girls 
screamed  and  fled.  'Lisha  swung  about  in  a  panic, 
but  Jerome  launched  himself  upon  his  averted  shoul- 


177 


der.  The  girls,  glancing  back  with  terrified  eyes 
from  the  school  -  house  door,  seemed  to  see  the  boy 
lift  the  grown  man  from  the  ground,  and  the  two 
whirl  a  second  in  the  air  before  they  crashed  down, 
and  so  declared  afterwards.  Jerome  clung  to  his 
opponent  like  a  wild-cat,  a  small  but  terrific  body  all 
made  up  of  nerves  and  muscles  and  electric  fire.  He 
wound  his  arms  with  a  violent  jerk  as  of  steel 
around  'Lisha's  neck ;  he  bunted  him  with  a  head 
like  a  cannon-ball ;  he  twisted  little  wiry  legs  under 
the  hollows  of  'Lisha's  knees.  The  two  came  doAvn 
together  with  a  great  thud.  The  teacher  and  the 
scholars  came  rushing  to  the  door.  Elmira  wailed 
and  sobbed  in  the  background.  The  slight  boy  was 
holding  great  'Lisha  on  the  ground  with  a  strength 
that  seemed  uncanny. 

'Lisha's  nose  was  bleeding ;  he  breathed  hard ;  his 
eyes,  upturned  to  Jerome,  had  a  ghastly  roll.  "  Let 
me — up,  will  ye  ?"  he  choked,  faintly. 

"  Will  you  ever  say  anything  like  that  again  ?" 

"  Let  me  up,  will  ye  ?"  'Lisha  gave  a  convulsive 
gasp  that  was  almost  a  sob. 

"  Jerome  I"  called  the  teacher.  She  was  a  young 
woman  from  another  village,  mildly  and  assentingly 
good,  virtue  having,  like  the  moon,  only  its  simply 
illuminated  side  turned  towards  her  vision.  Weakly 
blue-eyed  and  spectacled,  hooked  up  primly  in  chaste 
drab  woollen  and  capped  with  white  muslin,  though 
scarcely  thirty,  she  stood  among  her  flock  and  eyed 
the  fierce  combatants  with  an  utter  lack  of  command 
of  the  situation.  She  was  a  country  minister's 
daughter,  and  had  never  taught  until  her  father's 
death.  This  was  her  first  school,  and  to  its  turbulent 
elements  she  brought  only  the  precisely  limited  lore 
12 


178 


of  a  young  woman's  seminary  of  that  day,  and  the 
experiences  of  early  piety. 

Looking  at  the  struggling  boys,  she  thought  vague 
ly  of  that  hymn  of  Isaac  Watts's  which  treats  of 
barking  and  biting  dogs  and  the  desirability  of  amity 
and  concord  between  children,  as  if  it  could  in  some 
way  be  applied  to  heal  the  breach.  She  called  again 
fruitlessly  in  her  thin  treble,  which  had  been  raised 
in  public  only  in  neighborhood  prayer-meetings  : 
"  Jerome  !  Jerome  Edwards  I" 

"  Will  you  say  it  again  ?"  demanded  Jerome  of  his 
prostrate  adversary,  with  a  sharp  prod  of  a  knee. 

After  a  moment  of  astonished  staring  there  was  a 
burst  of  mirth  among  the  pupils,  especially  the  older 
boys.  'Lisha  was  not  a  special  favorite  among  them 
—he  was  too  good-looking,  had  too  much  money  to 
spend,  and  was  too  much  favored  by  the  girls.  In 
spite  of  the  teacher's  half-pleading  commands,  they 
made  a  rush  and  formed  a  ring  around  the  fighters. 

"  Go  it,  J'rome  !"  they  shouted.  "  Give  it  to  him  ! 
You're  a  fighter,  you  be.  Look  at  J'rome  Edwards 
lickin'  a  feller  twice  his  size.  Hi !  Go  it,  J'rome  I9' 

"  Boys  !"  called  the  teacher.     "  Boys  !" 

Some  of  the  smaller  girls  began  to  cry  and  clung  to 
her  skirts ;  the  elder  girls  watched  with  dilated  eyes, 
or  laughed  with  rustic  hardihood  for  such  sights. 
Elmira  still  waited  on  the  outskirts.  Jerome  paid  no 
attention  to  the  teacher  or  the  shouting  boys.  "Will 
you  say  it  again  ?"  he  kept  demanding  of  'Lisha, 
until  finally  he  got  a  sulky  response. 

"  No,  I  won't.     Now  lemme  up,  will  ye  ?" 

"Say  you're  sorry." 

"I'm  sorry.     Lemme  up  I" 

Jerome,  without  appearing  to  move,  collected  him- 


179 


self  for  a  spring.  Suddenly  lie  was  off  'Lisha  and 
far  to  one  side,  with  one  complete  bound  of  his  whole 
body,  like  a  cat. 

'Lisha  got  up  stiffly,  muttering  under  his  breath, 
and  went  round  to  the  well  to  wash  off  the  blood. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  renew  the  combat,  as  the  other 
boys  bad  hoped  he  might.  He  preferred  to  undergo 
the  ignominy  of  being  worsted  in  fight  by  a  little  boy 
rather  than  take  the  risk  of  being  pounced  upon 
again  with  such  preternatural  fury.  When  he  en 
tered  school,  having  washed  his  face,  he  was  quite 
pale,  and  walked  with  shaking  knees.  Rather  physical 
than  moral  courage  had  'Lisha  Robinson,  and  it  was 
his  moral  courage,  after  all,  which  had  been  tested, 
as  it  is  in  all  such  unequal  combats. 

As  for  Jerome,  he  had  to  stand  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  a  spectacle  unto  the  school,  folded  in  his 
father's  coat,  which  had,  alas  !  two  buttons  torn  off, 
and  a  three-cornered  rag  hanging  from  one  tail, 
which  fluttered  comically  in  the  draught  from  the 
door ;  but  nobody  dared  laugh.  There  was  infinite 
respect,  if  not  approbation,  for  Jerome  in  the  school 
that  day.  Some  of  the  big  boys  scowled,  and  one 
girl  said  out  loud,  "  It's  a  shame  !"  when  the  teacher 
ordered  him  to  stand  in  the  floor.  Had  he  rebelled, 
the  teacher  would  have  had  no  support,  but  Jerome 
took  his  place  in  the  spot  indicated,  with  a  grave 
and  scornful  patience.  The  greatness  of  his  triumph 
made  him  magnanimous.  It  was  clearly  evident  to 
his  mind  that  'Lisha  Robinson  and  not  he  should 
stand  in  the  floor,  and  that  he  gained  a  glory  of  mar 
tyrdom  in  addition  to  the  other. 

Jerome  had  never  felt  so  proud  in  his  life  as  when 
he  stood  there,  in  his  father's  old  coat,  having  estab^ 


180 


lished  his  right  to  wear  it  without  remark  by  beating 
the  biggest  boy  in  school.  He  stood  erect,  equally 
poised  on  his  two  feet,  looking  straight  ahead  with  a 
grave,  unsmiling  air.  He  looked  especially  at  no  one, 
except  once  at  his  sister  Elmira.  She  had  just  raised 
her  head  from  the  curve  of  her  arm,  in  which  she  had 
been  weeping,  and  her  tear-stained  eyes  met  her 
brother's.  He  looked  steadily  at  her,  frowning  sig 
nificantly.  Elmira  knew  what  it  meant.  She  began 
to  study  her  geography,  and  did  not  cry  again. 

At  recess  the  teacher  went  up  to  Jerome,  and 
spoke  to  him  almost  timidly.  "  I  am  very  sorry 
about  this,  Jerome/'  she  said.  "  I  am  sorry  you 
fought,  and  sorry  I  had  to  punish  you  in  this  way/' 

Jerome  looked  at  her.  "  She's  a  good  deal  like 
mother,"  he  thought.  "  You  had  to  punish  some 
body,"  said  he,  "  an' — I'd  licked  him." 

The  teacher  started ;  this  reasoning  confused  her 
a  little,  the  more  so  that  she  had  an  uneasy  convic 
tion  that  she  had  punished  the  lesser  offender.  She 
looked  at  the  proud  little  figure  in  the  torn  coat,  and 
her  mild  heart  went  out  to  him.  She  glanced  round; 
there  were  not  many  scholars  in  the  room.  Elmira 
sat  in  her  place,  busy  with  her  slate ;  a  few  of  the 
older  ones  were  in  a  knot  near  the  window  at  the 
back  of  the  room.  The  teacher  slipped  her  hand 
into  her  pocket  and  drew  out  a  lemon-drop,  which 
she  thrust  softly  into  Jerome's  hand.  "Here,"  said 
she. 

Jerome,  who  treated  usually  a  giver  like  a  thief, 
took  the  lemon-drop,  thanked  her,  and  stood  sucking 
it  the  rest  of  the  recess.  It  was  his  first  gallantry 
towards  womankind. 

This  teacher  remained  in  the  school  only  a  half- 


181 


term.  Some  said  that  she  left  because  she  was  not 
strong  enough  to  teach  such  a  large  school.  Some  said 
because  she  had  not  enough  government.  This  had 
always  been  considered  a  man's  school  during  the 
winter  months,  but  a  departure  had  been  made  in 
this  case  because  the  female  teacher  was  need}'  and  a 
minister's  daughter. 

The  place  was  filled  by  a  man  who  never  tempered 
injustice  with  lemon-drops,  and  ruled  generally  with 
fair  and  equal  measure.  He  was  better  for  the 
school,  and  Jerome  liked  him  ;  but  he  felt  sad, 
though  he  kept  it  to  himself,  when  the  woman 
teacher  went  away.  She  gave  him  for  a  parting  gift 
a  little  volume,  a  treasure  of  her  own  childhood, 
purporting  to  be  the  true  tale  of  an  ungodly  youth 
who  robbed  an  orchard  on  the  Sabbath  day,  thereby 
combining  two  deadly  sins,  and  was  drowned  in 
crossing  a  brook  on  his  way  home.  The  weight  of 
his  bag  of  stolen  fruit  prevented  him  from  rising, 
but  he  would  not  let  go,  and  thereby  added  to  his 
other  crimes  that  of  greediness.  There  was  a  frontis 
piece  representing  this  froward  hero,  in  a  tall  hat 
and  little  frilled  trousers,  with  a  bag  the  size  of  a 
slack  balloon  dragging  on  the  ground  behind  him, 
proceeding  towards  the  neighbor's  apple-tree,  which 
bore  fruit  as  large  as  the  thief s  head  upon  its  un 
bending  boughs. 

"  There's  a  pretty  picture  in  it,"  the  teacher  said, 
when  she  presented  the  book ;  she  had  kept  Jerome 
after  school  for  that  purpose.  "  I  used  to  like  to  look 
at  it  when  I  was  a  little  girl."  Then  she  added  that 
she  had  crossed  out  the  inscription,  "Martha  Maria 
Whittaker,  from  her  father,  Eev.  Enos  Whittaker," 
on  the  fly-leaf,  and  written  underneath,  "Jerome 


182 


Edwards,  from  his  teacher,,  Martha  Maria  Whitta- 
ker,"  and  displayed  her  little  delicate  scratch. 

Then  the  teacher  had  hesitated  a  little,  and  col 
ored  faintly,  and  looked  at  the  boy.  He  seemed  to 
this  woman — meekly  resigned  to  old-age  and  maiden 
hood  at  thirty — a  mere  child,  and  like  the  son  which 
another  woman  might  have  had,  but  the  missing  of 
whom  was  a  shame  to  her  to  contemplate.  Then  she 
had  said  good-bye  to  him,  and  bade  him  be  always  a 
good  boy,  and  had  leaned  over  and  kissed  him.  It 
was  the  kiss  of  a  mother  spiritualized  by  the  inno 
cent  mystery  and  imagination  of  virginity. 

Jerome  kept  the  little  book  always,  and  he  never 
forgot  the  kiss  nor  the  teacher,  who  returned  to  her 
native  village  and  taught  the  school  there  during  the 
summer  months,  and  starved  on  the  proceeds  during 
the  winter,  until  she  died,  some  ten  years  later,  be 
ing  of  a  delicate  habit,  and  finding  no  place  of  com 
fort  in  the  world. 

Jerome  walked  ten  miles  and  back  to  her  funeral 
one  freezing  day. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

JEROME'S  mother  never  knew  about  the  rent  in 
his  father's  best  coat,  nor  the  fight.  To  do  the  boy 
justice,  he  kept  it  from  her,  neither  because  of  cow 
ardice  nor  deceit,  but  because  of  magnanimity.  "It 
will  just  work  her  all  up  if  she  knew'Lisha  Robinson 
made  fun  of  father's  best  coat,  and  it's  tore,"  Jerome 
told  Elmira,  who  nodded  in  entire  assent. 

Elrnira  sat  up  in  her  cold  chamber  until  long  after 
midnight,  and  darned  the  rent  painfully  by  the  light 
of  a  tallow  candle.  Then  it  was  a  comparatively  sim 
ple  matter,  when  one  had  to  deal  with  a  woman  con 
fined  to  a  rocking-chair,  to  never  give  her  a  full  view 
of  the  mended  coat-tail.  Jerome  cultivated  a  habit 
of  backing  out  of  the  room,  as  from  an  audience  with 
a  queen.  The  sting  from  his  wounded  pride  having 
been  salved  with  victory,  he  was  unduly  important 
in  his  own  estimation,  until  an  unforeseen  result 
came  from  the  affair. 

There  are  many  surprising  complications  from  war, 
even  war  between  two  school-boys.  One  night,  after 
school,  Jerome  went  to  Cyrus  Robinson's  for  a  lot  of 
shoes  which  had  been  promised  him  two  days  before, 
and  was  told  there  were  none  to  spare.  Cyrus  Rob 
inson  leaned  over  the  counter  and  glanced  around 
cautiously.  It  was  not  a  busy  time  of  day.  Two  old 
farmers  were  standing  by  the  stove,  talking  to  each 
other  in  a  drone  of  extreme  dialect,  almost  as  unin- 


184 


telligible,  except  to  one  who  understood  its  subject- 
matter,  as  the  notes  of  their  own  cattle.  The  clerk, 
Samson  Loud,  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  store, 
cleaning  a  molasses-barrel  from  its  accumulated  sug 
ar.  "  Look-a-here,"  said  Cyrus  Robinson,  beckoning 
Jerome  with  a  hard  crook  of  a  seamed  forefinger. 
The  boy  stood  close  to  the  counter,  and  uplifted  to 
him  his  small,  undaunted,  yet  piteously  wistful  face. 

"Look-a-here,"  said  Cyrus  Robinson,  in  a  whisper 
of  furtive  malice,  leaning  nearer,  the  point  of  his 
shelving  beard  almost  touching  Jerome's  forehead  ; 
"  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you.  I  'ain't  got  any 
shoes  to  spare  to- night  j  an',  what's  more,  I  ain't 
going  to  have  any  to  spare  in  future.  Boys  that  fight 
'ain't  got  time  enough  to  close  shoes/' 

Jerome  looked  at  him  a  moment,  as  if  scarcely 
comprehending;  then  a  sudden  quiver  as  of  light 
came  over  him,  and  Cyrus  Robinson  shrank  back  be 
fore  his  eyes  as  if  his  counter  were  a  bulwark. 

"I  s'pose  if  your  big  boy  had  licked  me  'cause  he 
made  fun  of  my  father's  coat,  instead  of  me  lickiii' 
him,  you'd  have  given  me  some  more  shoes !"  cried 
the  boy,  with  the  dauntlessness  of  utter  scorn,  and 
turned  and  walked  out  of  the  store. 

"  You'd  better  take  care,  young  man  !"  called  Cyrus 
Robinson,  in  open  rage,  for  the  boy's  clear  note  of 
wrath  had  been  heard  over  the  whole  store.  The  two 
old  farmers  looked  up  in  dull  astonishment  as  the 
door  slammed  after  Jerome,  stared  questioningly  at 
the  storekeeper  and  each  other,  then  the  thick  stream 
of  their  ideas  returned  to  its  course  of  their  own  af 
fairs,  and  their  husky  gabble  recommenced. 

Samson  Laud  raised  his  head,  covered  with  close 
curls  of  light  red  hair,  and  his  rasped  red  face  out 


185 


of  the  molasses-barrel,,  gave  one  quick  glance  full  of 
acutest  sarcasm  of  humor  at  Cyrus  Robinson,  then 
disappeared  again  into  sugary  depths,  and  resumed 
his  scraping. 

Jerome,  on  his  homeward  road,  did  not  feel  his 
spirit  of  defiance  abate.  "Wonder  how  we're  going 
to  pay  that  interest  money  now  ?  Wonder  how 
mother  '11  take  it  ?"  he  said  ;  yet  he  would  have 
fought  'Lisha  Robinson  over  again,  knowing  the  same 
result.  He  had  not  yet  grown  servile  to  his  daily 
needs. 

However,  speeding  along  through  the  clear  night, 
treading  the  snow  flashing  back  the  full  moonlight 
in  his  eyes  like  a  silver  mirror,  he  dreaded  more  and 
more  the  meeting  his  mother  and  telling  her  the 
news.  He  slackened  his  pace.  Now  and  then  he  stood 
still  and  looked  up  at  the  sky,  where  the  great  white 
moon  rode  through  the  hosts  of  the  stars.  Without 
analyzing  his  thoughts,  the  boy  felt  the  utter  ir- 
responsiveness  of  all  glory  and  all  heights.  Mock 
ing  shafts  of  moonlight  and  starlight  and  frostlight 
seemed  glancing  off  this  one  little  soul  in  the  freez 
ing  solitude  of  creation,  wherein  each  is  largely  to 
himself  alone.  What  was  it  to  the  moon  and  all 
those  shining  swarms  of  stars,  and  that  far  star-dust 
in  the  Milky  AVay,  whether  he,  Jerome  Edwards,  had 
shoes  to  close  or  not  ?  Whether  he  and  his  mother 
starved  or  not,  they  would  shine  just  the  same.  The 
triviality — even  ludicrousness — of  the  sorrow  of  man, 
as  compared  with  eternal  things,  was  over  the  boy. 
He  was  maddened  at  the  sting  and  despite  of  his 
own  littleness  in  the  face  of  that  greatness.  Sudden 
ly  a  wild  impulse  of  rebellion  that  was  almost  blas 
phemy  seized  him.  He  clinched  a  puny  fist  at  a 


186 


great  star.  "Wish  I  could  make  you  stop  shining" 
he  cried  out,  in  a  loud,  fierce  voice  ;  "wish  I  could 
do  somethin'  I" 

Suddenly  Jerome  was  hemmed  in  by  a  cloud  of 
witnesses.  Eliphalet  Means,  John  Jennings,  and 
Colonel  Lamson  had  overtaken  him  as  he  stood  star 
gazing.  They  were  on  their  way  to  punch  and  cards 
at  Squire  Merritt's.  Jerome  felt  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  looked  up  into  John  Jennings's  long, 
melancholy  countenance,  instead  of  the  shining  face 
of  the  star.  He  saw  the  eyes  of  the  others  surveying 
him,  half  in  astonishment,  half  in  amusement,  over 
the  folds  of  their  camlet  cloaks. 

"Want  to  make  the  star  stop  shining?''  queried 
John  Jennings,  in  his  sweet  drawl. 

Jerome  made  no  reply.  His  shoulder  twitched 
under  Mr.  Jennings's  hand.  He  meditated  pushing 
between  these  interlopers  and  running  for  home. 
The  New  England  constraint,  to  which  he  had  been 
born,  was  to  him  as  a  shell  of  defence  and  decency, 
and  these  men  had  had  a  glimpse  of  him  outside  it. 
He  was  horribly  ashamed.  "  S'pose  they  think  I'm 
crazy,"  he  reflected. 

"Want  to  stop  the  star  shining?"  repeated  John 
Jennings.  "  Well,  you  can/' 

Jerome,  in  astonishment,  forgot  his  shame,  and 
looked  up  into  the  man's  beautiful,  cavernous  eyes. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how.  Don't  look  at  it.  I've  stopped 
nearly  all  the  stars  I've  ever  seen  that  way."  John 
Jennings's  voice  seemed  to  melt  into  infinite  sadness 
and  sweetness,  like  a  song.  The  other  men  chuckled 
but  feebly,  as  if  scarcely  knowing  whether  it  were  a 
jest  or  not.  John  Jennings  took  his  hand  from 
Jerome's  shoulder,  tossed  the  wing  of  his  cloak  high- 


187 


er  over  his  face,  and  went  on  with  his  friends.  How 
ever,  when  fairly  on  his  way,  he  turned  and  called 
back,  with  a  soft  laugh,  "I  would  let  the  star  shine, 
though,  if  I  were  you,  boy." 

"Who  was  the  boy?"  Colonel  Lamson  asked  the 
lawyer,  as  the  three  men  proceeded. 

"  The  Edwards  boy." 

"Well,"  said  John  Jennings,  "'tis  an  unlucky  devil 
he  is,  call  him  what  you  will,  for  he's  born  to  feel  the 
hammer  of  Thor  on  his  soul  as  well  as  his  flesh,  and 
it  is  double  pain  for  all  such." 

Jerome  stood  staring  after  John  Jennings  and  his 
friends  a  moment ;  he  had  not  the  least  conception 
what  it  all  meant ;  then  he  proceeded  at  a  good  pace, 
arguing  that  the  sooner  he  got  home  and  told  his 
mother  and  had  it  over,  the  better. 

But  he  had  not  gone  far  before  he  saw  some  one 
else  coming,  a  strange,  nondescript  figure,  with  out 
lines  paled  and  blurred  in  the  moonlight,  looking  as 
if  it  bore  its  own  gigantic  and  heavy  head  before  it 
in  outstretched  arms.  Soon  he  saw  it  was  his  uncle 
Ozias  Lamb,  laden  with  bundles  of  shoes  about  his 
shoulders,  bending  forward  under  their  weight. 

Ozias  halted  when  he  reached  Jerome.  "Hullo  !" 
said  he  ;  "  that  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Jerome  replied,  deferentially.  He  had 
respect  for  his  uncle  Ozias. 

"  Where  you  goin'  ?" 

"  Home." 

"  'Ain't  you  been  to  Kobinson's  for  shoes  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  be  they,  then  ?" 

Jerome  told  him. 

"I  ain't  surprised.     I  knew  what  'twould  be  when 


188 


I  heard  you'd  fit  'Lisha,"  said  Ozias.  "You  hit 
my  calf,  you  hit  me.  It's  natur'."  Ozias  gave  a 
cynical  chuckle  ;  he  shifted  his  load  of  shoes  to  ease 
his  right  shoulder.  "'Lisha's  big  as  two  of  you/'  he 
said.  "  How'd  ye  work  it  to  fling  him  ?  Twist  your 
leg  under  his,  eh  ?" 

Jerome  nodded. 

"  That's  a  good  trick.  I  larnt  that  when  I  was  a 
boy.  Well,  I  ain't  surprised  Robinson  has  shet  down 
on  the  shoes.  What  ye  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"  Dun'no',"  replied  Jerome  ;  then  he  gave  a  weak, 
childish  gesture,  and  caught  his  breath  in  a  sob. 
He  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  after  all,  and  his 
uncle  Ozias  was  the  only  remaining  natural  tower  to 
his  helplessness. 

"  0  Lord,  don't  ye  go  to  whimperin',  big  man  like 
you!"  responded  Ozias  Lamb,  quickly.  "Look  at 
here —  Ozias  paused  a  moment,  pondering.  Je 
rome  waited,  trying  to  keep  the  sobs  back. 

"  Tell  you  what  'tis/'  said  Ozias.  "  It's  one  of  the 
cases  where  the  sarpents  and  the  doves  come  in. 
We've  got  to  do  a  little  manoeuvrin'.  Don't  you 
fret,  J'rome,  an'  don't  you  go  to  frettin'  of  your 
mother.  I'll  take  an  extra  lot  of  shoes  from  Cy 
Robinson  ;  he  can  think  Belinda's  goin'  to  bind — she 
never  has — or  he  can  think  what  he  wants  to  ;  I  ain't 
goin'  to  regulate  his  thinkin' ;  an'  you  come  to  me 
for  shoes  in  future.  Only  you  keep  dark  about  it. 
Don't  you  let  on  to  nobody,  except  your  mother,  an' 
she  needn't  know  the  whys  an'  wherefores.  I've  let 
out  shoes  before  now.  I'll  pay  a  leetle  more  than 
Robinson.  Tell  her  your  uncle  Ozias  has  taken  all 
the  shoes  Robinson  has  got,  and  you're  to  come  to 
him  for  'em,  an'  to  keep  dark  about  it,  an'  let  her 


189 


think  what  she's  a  mind  to.  Women  folks  can't 
know  everything." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Jerome. 

"  You  can  come  fer  the  shoes  and  bring  'em  home 
after  dark,  so's  nobody  will  see  you,"  said  Ozias  Lamb, 
further. 

So  it  befell  that  Jerome  went  for  the  work  that 
brought  him  daily  bread,  like  a  thief,  by  night,  often 
times  slipping  his  package  of  shoes  under  the  way 
side  bushes  at  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps. 
He  was  deceitfully  reticent  also  with  his  mother, 
whom  he  let  follow  her  own  conclusion,  that  Cyrus 
Robinson  had  been  dissatisfied  with  their  work. 
"  Guess  he  won't  see  as  much  difference  with  this 
work  as  he  think  he  does,"  she  would  often  say,  with 
a  bitter  laugh.  Jerome  was  silent,  but  the  inborn 
straightforwardness  of  the  boy  made  him  secretly  re 
bellious  at  such  a  course. 

"  It's  lyin',  anyhow,"  he  said,  sulkily,  once,  when 
he  loaded  the  shoes  on  his  shoulder,  like  a  mason's 
hod,  and  was  starting  forth  from  his  uncle's  shop. 

Ozias  Lamb  laughed  the  laugh  of  one  who  perverts 
humor,  and  makes  a  jest  of  the  bitter  instead  of  the 
merry  things  of  life. 

"  It's  got  so  that  lies  are  the  only  salvation  of  the 
righteous,"  said  Ozias  Lamb,  with  that  hard  laugh  of 
his.  Then,  with  the  pitilessness  of  any  dissenting 
spirit  of  reform,  who  will  pour  out  truths,  whether 
of  good  or  evil,  to  the  benefit  or  injury  of  mankind, 
who  will  force  strong  meat  as  well  as  milk  on  babies 
and  sucklings,  he  kept  on,  while  the  boy  stood  star 
ing,  shrinking  a  little,  yet  with  young  eyes  kindling, 
from  the  bitter  frenzy  of  the  other. 

"It's  so,"  said  Ozias  Lamb.     "You'll  find  it  out 


190 


for  yourself,  in  the  hard  run  you've  got  to  hoe,  with 
out  any  help,  but  it's  just  as  well  for  you  to  know  it 
beforehand.  You  won't  get  bit  so  hard  —  fore- 
warned's  forearmed.  Snakes  have  their  poison-bags, 
an'  bees  have  their  stings  ;  there  ain't  an  animal  that 
don't  have  horns  or  claws  or  teeth  to  use  if  they  get 
in  a  hard  place.  Them  that  don't  have  weapons 
have  wings,  like  birds.  If  they  can't  fight,  they  can 
fly  away  from  the  battle.  But  human  beings  that 
are  good,  and  meek,  and  poor,  and  hard  pushed,  they 
hain't  got  any  claws  or  any  wings  ;  though  if  they 
had  'twouldn't  be  right  to  use  'em  to  fight  or  get 
away,  so  the  parsons  say.  They  'ain't  got  any  natu 
ral  weapons.  Providence  'ain't  looked  out  for  them. 
All  they  can  do,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  to  steal  some 
of  the  devil's  own  weapons  to  fight  him  with." 

It  was  well  that  Jerome  could  not  understand  the 
half  of  his  uncle's  harangue,  and  got,  indeed,  only  a 
general  impression  of  the  unjust  helplessness  of  a 
meek  and  righteous  man  in  the  hands  of  adverse 
fate,  compared  with  horned  and  clawed  animals,  and 
Ozias's  system  of  defence  did  not  commend  itself  to 
his  understanding.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  im 
agine  that  his  uncle  advised  him  to  lie  and  steal  to 
better  his  fortunes,  and,  indeed,  nothing  was  further 
from  the  case.  Ozias  Lamb's  own  precepts  never 
went  into  practice.  He  was  scrupulously  honest, 
and  his  word  was  as  good  as  a  bond.  However,  al 
though  Ozias  had  never  told  a  lie  in  his  life,  he  had 
perpetrated  many  subtleties  of  the  truth.  He  was 
wily  and  secretive.  "A  man  ain't  a  liar  because  he 
don't  tell  all  he  knows,"  he  said. 

AVhen  asking  for  more  shoes  from  Cyrus  Robinson, 
he  had  said  nothing  about  his  wife's  working  upon 


191 


them,  but  he  knew  that  was  the  inference,  and  he 
did  not  contradict  it.  He  forbade  Belinda  to  men 
tion  the  matter  in  one  way  or  another.  "  The  sar- 
pent  has  got  to  feed  the  widows  an'  the  orphans/'  he 
said,  "an7  that's  a  good  reason  for  bein'  a  sarpent." 

As  Ann  and  Elmira  did  most  of  their  work  on  the 
shoes  during  the  day,  Jerome  fell  into  the  habit  of 
doing  his  part,  the  closing,  in  his  uncle's  shop  at 
night.  Every  evening  he  would  load  himself  with 
the  sheaf  of  bound  shoes  and  hasten  down  the  road. 
He  liked  to  work  in  company  with  a  man,  rather 
than  with  his  mother  and  Elmira  ;  it  gave  him  a 
sense  of  independence  and  maturity.  He  did  not 
mind  so  much  delving  away  on  those  hard  leather 
seams  while  his  mates  were  out  coasting  and  skat 
ing,  for  he  had  the  sensation  of  responsibility — of 
being  the  head  of  a  family.  Here  he  felt  like  a  man 
supporting  his  mother  and  sister  ;  at  home  he  was 
only  a  boy,  held  to  his  task  under  the  thumb  of  a 
woman. 

Then,  too,  his  uncle  Ozias's  conversation  was  a 
kind  of  pungent  stimulant — not  pleasant  to  the 
taste,  not  even  recognizable  in  all  its  savors,  yet  with 
a  growing  power  of  fascination. 

Ozias  Lamb's  shoemaker's  shop  was  simply  a  little 
one-room  building  in  the  centre  of  the  field  south  of 
his  cottage  house.  He  had  in  it  a  tiny  box-stove, 
red-hot  from  fall  to  spring.  When  Jerome,  coming 
on  a  cold  night,  opened  the  door,  a  hot  breath  scent 
ed  with  dried  leather  rushed  in  his  face.  Within 
sat  his  uncle  on  his  shoemaker's  bench,  short  and 
squat  like  an  Eastern  idol  on  his  throne.  His  body 
was  settled  into  itself  with  long  habit  of  labor,  his 
mind  with  contemplation.  His  high,  bald  forehead 


192 


overshadowed  his  lower  face  like  a  promontory  of 
thought ;  his  eyes,  even  when  he  was  alone,  were  full 
of  a  wise,  condemning  observation  ;  his  mouth  was 
inclined  always  in  a  set  smile  at  the  bitter  humor  of 
things.  The  face  of  this  elderly  New  England  shoe 
maker  looked  not  unlike  some  Asiatic  conception  of 
a  deity. 

Jerome  always  closed  the  door  immediately  when 
he  entered,  for  Ozias  dreaded  a  draught,  having  an 
inclination  to  rheumatism,  and  being  also  chilly,  like 
most  who  sit  at  their  labor.  Then  he  would  seat  him 
self  on  a  stool,  and  close  shoes,  and  listen  when  his 
uncle  talked,  as  he  did  constantly  when  once  warmed 
to  it.  The  little  room  was  lighted  by  a  whale-oil 
lamp  on  the  wall.  On  some  nights  the  full  moon 
light  streamed  in  the  three  windows  athwart  the  lamp 
light.  The  room  got  hotter  and  closer.  Ozias  now 
and  then,  as  he  talked,  motioned  Jerome,  who  put 
another  stick  of  wood  in  the  stove.  The  whole  at 
mosphere,  spiritual  and  physical,  seemed  to  grow  com 
bustible,  and  as  if  at  any  moment  a  word  or  a  thought 
might  cause  a  leap  into  flame.  A  spirit  of  anarchy 
and  revolution  was  caged  in  that  little  close  room, 
bound  to  a  shoemaker's  bench  by  the  chain  of  labor 
for  bread.  The  spirit  was  harmless  enough,  for  its 
cage  and  its  chain  were  not  to  be  escaped  or  forced, 
strengthened  as  they  were  by  the  usage  of  a  whole 
life.  Ozias  Lamb  would  deliver  himself  of  riotous 
sentiments,  but  on  that  bench  he  would  sit  and  peg 
shoes  till  his  dying  day.  He  would  have  pegged  there 
through  a  revolution. 

Jerome's  eyes  would  gleam  with  responsive  fire 
when  his  uncle,  his  splendid  forehead  flushing  and 
swelling  with  turbid  veins,  said,  in  that  dry  voice  of 


193 


his,  which  seemed  to  gain  in  force  without  being 
raised  into  clamor  :  "  What  right  has  one  man  with 
the  whole  purse,  while  another  has  not  a  penny  in  his 
pocket  ?  What  right  has  one  with  the  whole  loaf, 
while  another  has  a  crumb  ?  What  right  has  one 
man  with  half  the  land  in  the  village,  while  another 
can  hardly  make  shift  to  earn  his  grave  ?" 

Ozias  would  pause  a  second,  then  launch  out  with 
new  ardor,  as  if  Jerome  had  advanced  an  opposite 
argument.  "  Born  with  property,  are  they — inherited 
property  ?  One  man  comes  into  the  world  with  the 
gold  all  earned,  or  stolen — don't  matter  which — wait 
ing  for  him.  Shoes  all  made  for  him,  no  peggin'  for 
other  folks  ;  carpets  to  walk  on,  sofas  to  lay  on,  china 
dishes  to  eat  off  of.  Everything  is  all  complete  ;  don't 
make  no  odds  if  he's  a  fool,  don't  make  no  odds  if  he 
'ain't  no  more  sense  of  duty  to  his  fellow-beings  than 
a  pig,  it's  all  just  as  it  should  be.  Everybody  is 
cringin'  an'  bowin'  an'  offerin'  a  little  more  to  the  one 
that's  got  more  than  anybody  else.  It's  '  Take  a  seat 
here,  sir — do  ;  this  is  more  comfortable,'  when  he's 
set  on  feather  cushions  all  day.  There'll  be  a  poor 
man  standin'  alongside  that  'ain't  had  a  chance  to  set 
down  since  he  got  out  of  bed  before  daylight,  every 
bone  in  him  achin' — stiff.  There  ain't  no  extra  com 
fortable  chairs  pointed  out  to  him.  Lord,  no  !  If 
there  happens  to  be  the  soft  side  of  a  rock  or  a  plank 
handy,  he's  welcome  to  take  it ;  if  there  ain't,  why  let 
him  keep  his  standin' ;  he's  used  to  it.  I  tell  ye,  it's 
them  that  need  to  whom  it  should  be  given,  and  not 
them  that's  got  it  already.  I  tell  ye,  the  need  should 
always  regulate  the  supply. 

"I  tell  ye,  J'rome,  balance-wheels  an'  seesaws  an' 
pendulums  wa'n't  give  us  for  nothin'  besides  runnin' 


194 


machinery  and  clocks.  Everything  on  this  earth 
means  somethin'  more'n  itself,  if  we  could  only  see 
it.  They're  symbols,  that's  what  they  be,  an'  we've 
got  to  work  up  from  a  symbol  that  we  see-  to  the 
higher  thing  that  we  don't  see.  Most  folks  think  it's 
the  other  way,  but  it  ain't. 

"Now,  J'rome,  you  look  at  that  old  clock  there; 
it  was  one  that  b'longed  to  old  Peter  Thomas.  I 
bought  it  when  he  broke  up  an'  went  to  the  poor- 
house.  Doctor  Prescott  he  foreclosed  on  him  'bout 
ten  years  ago  —  you  don't  remember.  He  had  his 
old  house  torn  down,  an'  sowed  the  land  down  to 
grass.  I  s'pose  I  paid  more'n  the  clock  was  worth, 
but  I  guess  it  kept  the  old  man  in  snuff  an'  terbaccer 
a  while.  Now  you  look  at  that  clock  ;  watch  that 
pendulum  swingin'.  Now  s'pose  we  say  the  left  is 
poverty — the  left  is  the  place  for  the  goats  an'  the 
poor  folks  that  poverty  has  made  goats  ;  an'  the  right 
is  riches.  See  it  swing,  do  ye  ?  It  don't  no  more'n 
touch  poverty  before  it's  rich ;  it  don't  get  time  to 
starve  an'  suffer.  It  don't  no  more'n  touch  riches 
before  it's  poor  ;  it  don't  have  time  to  forget,  an'  git 
proud  an'  hard.  I  tell  ye,  J'rome,  it  ain't  even 
division  we're  aimin'  at ;  we  can't  keep  that  if  we  get 
it  till  we're  dead;  it's — balance.  We  want  to  keep 
the  time  of  eternity,  jest  the  way  that  clock  keeps 
the  time  of  day." 

Jerome  looked  at  the  clock  and  the  pendulum 
swinging  dimly  behind  a  painted  landscape  on  the 
glass  door,  and  never  after  saw  one  without  his 
uncle's  imagery  recurring  to  his  mind.  Always  for 
him  the  pendulum  swung  into  the  midst  of  a  cower 
ing  throng  of  beggars  on  the  left,  and  into  a  band  of 
purple-clad  revellers  on  the  right.  Somehow,  too, 


195 


Doctor  Seth  Prescott's  face  always  stood  out  for  him 
plainly  among  them  in  purple. 

Always,  sooner  or  later,  Ozias  Lamb  would  seize 
Doctor  Prescott  and  Simon  Basset  as  living  illustra 
tions  and  pointed  examples  of  the  social  wrongs. 
"Look  at  them  two  men,"  he  would  say,  "to  come 
down  to  this  town ;  look  at  them.  You've  heard 
about  cuttle-fishes,  J'rome,  'ain't  ye  ?" 

Jerome  shook  his  head,  as  he  drew  his  waxed 
thread  through. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  what  they  be.  They're  an 
awful  kind  of  fish.  I  never  see  one,  but  Belinda's 
brother  that  was  a  sailor,  I've  heard  him  tell  enough  to 
make  your  blood  run  cold.  They're  all  head  an'  eyes 
an'  arms.  Their  eyes  are  big  as  saucers,  an'  they're 
made  just  to  see  things  the  cuttle-fishes  want  to  kill ; 
an'  they've  got  a  hundred  arms,  with  suckin'  claws 
on  the  ends,  an'  they  jest  search  an'  seek,  search  an' 
seek,  with  them  dreadful  eyes  that  ain't  got  no  life 
but  hate  an'  appetite,  an'  they  stretch  out  an'  feel, 
stretch  out  an'  feel,  with  them  hundred  arms,  till 
they  git  what  they  want,  an'  then  they  lay  hold  with 
all  the  suckers  on  them  hundred  arms,  an'  clutch 
an'  wind,  an'  twist  an'  overlay,  till,  whether  it's  a 
drownin'  sailor  or  a  ship,  you  can't  see  nothin'  but 
cuttle-fish,  an'—" 

Jerome  stopped  working,  staring  at  him.  He  was 
quite  pale.  His  imagination  leaped  to  a  glimpse  of 
that  frightful  fish.  "  An'— what  comes— then  ?"  he 
gasped. 

"The  cuttle-fish— has  got  a  beak,"  said  Ozias. 
"By-an'-by  there  ain't  nothin'  but  cuttle-fish." 

Jerome  saw  quite  plainly  the  monster  writhing 
and  coiling  over  a  waste  of  water,  and  nothing  else. 


196 


"Look  at  this  town,  an'  look  at  Doctor  Prescott, 
an'  look  at  Simon  Basset/"  Ozias  went  on,  coming 
abruptly  from  illustration  to  object,  with  a  vigor  of 
personal  spite.  "  Look  at  'em.  You  can't  see  much 
of  anything  here  but  them  two  men.  Much  as  ever 
you  can  see  the  meetin'-house  steeple.  There  are  a 
few  left,  so  you  can  see  who  they  be,  like  Squire  Mer- 
ritt  an'  Lawyer  Means  ;  but,  Lord,  they'd  better  not 
get  too  careless  huntin'  and  fishin'  and  card-playin', 
or  they'll  git  hauled  in,  partridges,  cards,  an'  all. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  'tis — about  all  that  anybody  can 
see  in  this  town  is  the  eyes  an'  the  arms  of  them  two 
men,  a-suckin'  and  graspin'. 

"  Doctor  Prescott,  he's  a  church  member,  too,  an' 
he  gives  tithes  of  his  widders  an'  orphans  to  the  Lord. 
That  meetin'-house  couldn't  be  run  nohow  without 
him.  If  they  didn't»have  him  to  speak  in  the  prayer- 
meetin's,  an'  give  the  Lord  some  information  about 
the  spiritooal  state  of  this  town  on  foreign  missions, 
an'  encourage  Him  by  admittin'  He'd  done  pretty 
well,  as  far  as  He's  gone,  why,  we  couldn't  have  no 
prayer-meetin's  at  all." 

Most  of  us  have  our  personal  grievances,  as  a  van 
tage  -  point  for  eloquence  in  behalf  of  the  mass. 
Simon  Basset  had  deprived  Ozias  Lamb,  by  shrewd 
management,  of  the  old  Lamb  homestead  ;  Doctor 
Prescott  had  been  instrumental  in  hushing  his  voice 
in  prayer  and  exhortation  in  prayer-meeting. 

The  village  people  were  not  slow  to  recognize  a 
certain  natural  eloquence  in  Ozias  'Lamb's  remarks  ; 
oftentimes  they  appealed  to  their  own  secret  convic 
tions  ;  yet  they  always  trembled  when  he  arose  and 
looked  about  with  that  strange  smile  of  his.  Ozias 
said  once  they  were  half  scared  on  account  of  the 


197 


Lord,  and  half  on  account  of  Doctor  Prescott.  Ozias 
was  often  clearly  unorthodox  in  his  premises — no  one 
could  conscientiously  demur  when  Doctor  Prescott, 
a  church  meeting  having  been  called,  presented  for 
approval,  the  minister  being  acquiescent,  a  resolu 
tion  that  Brother  Lamb  be  requested  to  remain  quiet 
in  the  sanctuary,  and  not  lift  up  his  voice  unto  the 
Lord  in  public  unless  he  could  do  so  in  accordance 
with  the  tenets  of  the  faith,  and  to  the  spiritual 
edification  of  his  fellow-Christians.  The  resolution 
was  passed,  and  Ozias  Lamb  never  entered  the  door 
of  the  meeting-house  again,  though  his  name  was  not 
withdrawn  from  the  church  books. 

Therefore  the  cuttle-fish  was  a  sort  of  Circean  re 
venge  upon  Doctor  Prescott  and  Simon  Basset  for 
his  own  private  wrongs.  It  takes  a  god  to  champion 
wrongs  which  have  not  touched  him  in  his  farthest 
imaginings. 


CHAPTER  XV 

JEROME  EDWARDS,  young  as  he  was,  had  within 
him  the  noblest  instinct  of  a  reformer — that  of  de 
ducting  from  all  evils  a  first  lesson  for  himself.  He 
said  to  himself :  "It  is  true,  what  Uncle  Ozias  says. 
It  is  wrong,  the  way  things  are.  The  rich  have 
everything — all  the  land,  all  the  good  food,  all  the 
money  ;  the  poor  have  nothing.  It  is  wrong."  Then 
he  said,  "  If  ever  I  am  rich  I  will  give  to  the  poor." 
This  pride  of  good  intentions,  in  comparison  with 
others'  deeds,  gave  the  boy  a  certain  sense  of  superi 
ority.  Sometimes  he  felt  as  if  he  could  see  the  top 
of  Doctor  Fresco  tjb's  head  when  he  met  him  on  the 
street. 

Poor  Jerome  had  few  of  the  natural  joys  and 
amusements  of  boyhood  ;  he  was  obliged  to  resort  to 
his  fertile  and  ardent  imagination,  or  the  fibre  of  his 
spirit  would  have  been  relaxed  with  the  melancholy 
of  age.  While  the  other  boys  played  in  the  present, 
whooping  and  frisking,  as  free  of  thought  as  young 
animals,  Jerome  worked  and  played  in  the  future. 
Some  air-castles  he  built  so  often  that  he  seemed  to 
fairly  dwell  in  them  ;  some  dreams  he  dreamed  so 
often  that  he  went  about  always  with  them  in  his 
eyes.  One  fancy  which  specially  commended  itself 
to  him  was  the  one  that  he  was  rich,  that  he  owned 
half  the  town,  that  in  some  manner  Doctor  Prescott's 
and  Simon  Basset's  acres  had  passed  into  his  pos- 


199 


session,  and  he  could  give  them  away.  He  estab 
lished  all  the  town  paupers  in  the  doctor's  clover. 
He  recalled  old  Peter  Thomas  from  the  poorhouse, 
and  set  him  at  Doctor  Prescott's  front  window  in  a 
broadcloth  coat.  An  imbecile  pauper  by  the  name  of 
Mindy  Toggs  he  established  in  undisturbed  posses 
sion  of  Simon  Basset's  house  and  lands. 

Doctor  Seth  Prescott  little  dreamed  when  he  met 
this  small,  shabby  lad,  and  passed  him  as  he  might 
have  passed  some  way-side  weed,  what  was  in  his 
mind.  If  people,  when  they  meet,  could  know  half 
the  workings  of  one  another's  minds,  the  recoils  from 
the  shocks  might  overbalance  creation.  But  Doctor 
Prescott  never  saw  the  phantom  paupers  slouching 
through  his  clover -fields,  and  Simon  Basset  never 
jostled  Mindy  Toggs  on  his  threshold.  However, 
Mindy  Toggs  had  once  lived  in  Simon  Basset's  house. 

As  Jerome  advanced  through  boyhood  it  seemed 
as  if  everything  combined  to  strengthen,  by  outside 
example,  the  fancies  and  beliefs  derived  from  Ozias 
Lamb's  precepts  and  his  own  constantly  hard  and 
toilsome  life.  Jerome,  on  his  very  way  to  the  dis 
trict  school,  learned  tasks  of  bitter  realism  more  im 
pressive  to  his  peculiar  order  of  mind  than  the  tables 
and  columns  in  the  text-books. 

There  was  a  short  cut  across  the  fields  between  the 
school-house  and  the  Edwards  house.  Jerome  and 
Elmira  usually  took  it,  unless  the  snow  was  deep,  as 
by  doing  so  they  lessened  the  distance  considerably. 

The  Edwards  house  was  situated  upon  a  road  cross 
ing  the  main  highway  of  the  village  where  the  school- 
house  stood.  In  the  triangle  of  fields  between  the 
path  which  the  Edwards  children  followed  on  their 
way  to  school  and  the  two  roads  was  the  poorhouse. 


200 


It  was  a  low,  stone  -  basemented  structure,  with  tiny 
windows,  a  few  of  them  barred  with  iron,  retreating 
ignominiously  within  thick  walls ;  the  very  grovel 
ling  of  mendicancy  seemed  symbolized  in  its  archi 
tecture  by  some  unpremeditatedness  of  art.  It  stood 
in  a  hollow,  amid  slopes  of  stony  plough  ridges,  over 
which  the  old  male  paupers  swarmed  painfully  with 
spades  and  shovels  when  spring  advanced.  When 
spring  came,  too,  old  pauper  women  and  wretched, 
half-witted  girls  and  children  squatted  like  toads  in 
the  green  fields  outside  the  ploughed  ones,  digging 
greens  in  company  with  grazing  cows,  and  looked  up 
with  unexpected  flashes  of  human  life  when  footsteps 
drew  near.  There  was  a  thrifty  Overseer  in  the  poor- 
house,  and  the  village  paupers,  unless  they  were  act 
ually  crippled  and  past  labor,  found  small  repose  in 
the  bosom  of  the  town.  They  grubbed  as  hard  for 
their  lodging  and  daily  bread  of  charity,  with  its  bit 
terest  of  sauces,  as  if  they  worked  for  hire. 

Old  Peter  Thomas,  for  one,  had  never  toiled  harder 
to  keep  the  roof  of  independence  over  his  head  than 
he  toiled  tilling  the  town  fields.  Old  Peter,  even  in 
his  age  and  indigence,  had  an  active  mind.  Only  one 
panacea  was  there  for  its  workings,  and  that  was  to 
bacco.  When  the  old  man  had — which  was  seldom — 
a  comfortable  quid  with  which  to  busy  his  jaws,  his 
mind  was  at  rest ;  otherwise  it  gnawed  constantly 
one  bitter  cud  of  questioning,  which  never  reached 
digestion.  "Why/'  asked  old  Peter  Thomas,  toiling 
tobaccoless  in  the  town  fields — "why  couldn't  the 
town  have  give  me  work,  an'  paid  me  what  I  aimed, 
an'  let  me  keep  my  house,  instead  of  sendin'  of  me 
here  ?" 

Sometimes  he  propounded  the  question,  his  sharp 


201 


old  eyes  twinkling  out  of  a  pitiful  gloom  of  bewilder 
ment,,  to  the  Overseer:  "Say,  Mr.  Simms,  what  ye 
s'pose  the  object  of  it  is  ?  Here  I  be,  workin'  jest  as 
hard  for  what's  give  as  for  what  I  used  to  aim."  But 
he  never  got  any  satisfaction,  and  his  mind  never  re 
laxed  to  ease,  until  in  some  way  he  got  a  bit  of  to 
bacco.  Old  Peter  Thomas,  none  of  whose  forebears 
had  ever  been  on  the  town,  who  had  had  in  his  youth 
one  of  the  prettiest  and  sweetest  girls  in  the  village 
to  wife,  toiling  hard  with  his  stiif  old  muscles  for  no 
gain  of  independence,  his  mind  burdened  with  his  un 
answered  question,  would  almost  at  times  have  sold 
his  soul  for  tobacco.  Nearly  all  he  had  was  given 
him  by  Ozias  Lamb,  who  sometimes  crammed  a  wedge 
of  tobacco  into  his  hand,  with  a  hard  and  furtive 
thrust  and  surly  glance  aloof,  when  he  jostled  him  on 
the  road  or  at  the  village  store.  Old  Peter  used  to 
loaf  about  the  store,  whenever  he  could  steal  away 
from  the  poorhouse,  on  the  chance  of  Ozias  and  to 
bacco.  Ozias  was  dearly  fond  of  tobacco  himself,  but 
little  enough  he  got,  with  this  hungry  old  pensioner 
lying  in  wait.  He  always  yielded  up  his  little  newly 
bought  morsel  of  luxury  to  Peter,  and  went  home  to 
his  shoes  without  it ;  however,  nobody  knew.  "  Don't 
ye  speak  on't,"  he  charged  Peter,  and  he  eschewed 
fiercely  to  himself  all  kindly  motives  in  his  giving, 
considering  rather  that  he  was  himself  robbed  by  the 
great  wrong  of  the  existing  order  of  things. 

Jerome,  who  had  seen  his  uncle  cram  tobacco  into 
old  Peter's  hand,  used  sometimes  to  leave  the  path 
on  his  way  to  school,  when  he  saw  the  delving  old 
figure  in  the  ploughed  field,  and  discovered,  even  at 
a  distance,  that  his  jaws  were  still  and  his  brow 
knotted,  run  up  to  him,  and  proffer  as  a  substitute 


202 


for  the  beloved  weed  a  generous  piece  of  spruce-gum. 
The  old  man  always  took  it,  and  spat  it  out  when  the 
boy's  back  was  turned. 

Jerome  used  to  be  fond  of  storing  up  checker- 
berries  and  sassafras  root,  and  doling  them  out  to  a 
strange  small  creature  with  wild,  askant  eyes  and 
vaguely  smiling  mouth,  with  white  locks  blowing  as 
straightly  and  coarsely  as  dry  swamp  grass,  who  was 
wont  to  sit,  huddling  sharp  little  elbows  and  knees 
together,  even  in  severe  weather,  on  a  stone  by  the 
path.  She  had  come  into  the  world  and  the  poor- 
house  by  the  shunned  byway  of  creation.  She  had 
no  name.  The  younger  school-children  said,  grave 
ly,  and  believed  it,  that  she  had  never  had  a  father ; 
as  for  her  mother,  she  was  only  a  barely  admitted  and 
shameful  necessity,  who  had  come  from  unknown 
depths,  and  died  of  a  decline,  at  the  town's  expense, 
before  the  child  could  walk.  She  had  nothing  save 
this  disgraceful  shadow  of  maternity,  her  feeble  little 
body,  and  her  little  soul,  and  a  certain  half-scared 
delight  in  watching  for  Jerome  and  his  doles  of  ber 
ries  and  sassafras.  One  of  Jerome's  dearest  dreams 
was  the  buying  this  child  a  doll  like  Lucina  Mer- 
ritt's,  with  a  muslin  frock  and  gay  sash  and  morocco 
shoes.  So  much  he  thought  about  it  that  it  fairly 
seemed  to  him  sometimes,  as  he  drew  near  the  little 
thing,  that  she  nursed  the  doll  in  her  arms.  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  what  a  beautiful  doll  she  was  to 
have  when  he  was  rich,  but  he  was  too  awkward  and 
embarrassed  before  his  own  kind  impulses.  He  only 
bade  her,  in  a  rough  voice,  to  hold  her  hands,  and 
then  dropped  into  the  little  pink  cup  so  formed  his 
small  votive  offering  to  childhood  and  poverty,  and 
was  off. 


203 


Occasionally  Elmira  had  cookies  given  her  by  kind 
women  for  whom  she  did  extra  work,,  and  then  she 
saved  one  for  the  little  creature,  emulating  her  broth 
er's  example.  There  was  one  point  on  the  way  to 
school  where  Elmira  liked  to  have  her  brother  with 
her,  and  used  often  to  wait  for  him  at  the  risk  of 
being  late.  Even  when  she  was  one  of  the  oldest 
girls  in  school,  almost  a  young  woman,  she  scurried 
fast  by  this  point  when  alone,  and  even  when  Jerome 
was  with  her  did  not  linger.  As  for  Jerome,  he  had 
no  fear;  but  during  his  winters  at  the  district  school 
the  peculiar  bent  of  his  mind  was  strengthened  by 
the  influence  of  this  place. 

The  poorhouse  in  the  hollow  had  its  barn  and  out 
buildings  attached  at  right  angles,  with  a  cart-path 
leading  thereto  from  the  street;  but  at  the  top  of  the 
slope,  on  the  other  side  of  the  school  ward  path,  stood 
a  large,  half-ruinous  old  barn,  used  only  for  storing 
surplus  hay.  The  door  of  this  great,  gray,  swaying 
structure  usually  stood  open,  and  in  it,  on  an  old 
wreck  of  a  wheelbarrow,  sat  Mindy  Toggs,  in  fair  or 
foul  weather. 

Mindy  Toggs's  head,  with  its  thick  thatch  of  light 
hair  reaching  to  his  shoulders,  had  the  pent  effect 
of  some  monstrous  mushroom  cap  over  his  meagre 
body,  with  its  loosely  hung  limbs,  which  moved  con 
stantly  with  uncouth  sprawls  and  flings,  as  if  by  some 
terrible  machinery  of  diseased  nerves.  Poor  Mindy 
Toggs's  great  thatched  head  also  nodded  and  lopped 
unceasingly,  and  his  slobbering  chin  dipped  into  his 
calico  shirt-bosom,  and  he  said  over  and  over,  in  his 
strange  voice  like  a  parrot's,  the  only  two  words  he 
was  ever  known  to  speak,  "  Simon  Basset,  Simon 
Basset." 


204 


Mindy  Toggs  was  sixty  years  old,  it  was  said.  His 
past  was  as  dim  as  his  intellect.  Nobody  seemed  to 
know  exactly  when  Mindy  Toggs  was  born,  or  just 
when  he  had  come  to  the  poorhouse.  Nobody  knew 
who  either  of  his  parents  had  been.  Nobody  knew 
how  he  got  his  name,  but  there  was  a  belief  that  it 
had  a  folk-lore-like  origin ;  that  generations  of  Over 
seers  ago  an  enterprising  wife  of  one  had  striven  to 
set  his  feeble  wits  to  account  in  minding  the  pauper 
babies,  and  gradually,  through  transmission  by  weak 
and  childish  minds,  his  task  had  become  his-  name. 
Toggs  was  held  to  be  merely  a  reminiscence  of  some 
particularly  ludicrous  stage  of  his  poorhouse  cos 
tume. 

Mindy  Toggs  had  dwelt  in  the  poorhouse  ever 
since  people  could  remember,  with  the  exception  of 
one  year,  when  he  was  boarded  out  by  the  town  with 
Simon  Basset,  and  learned  to  speak  his  two  words. 
Simon  Basset  had  always  had  an  opinion  that  work 
could  be  gotten  out  of  Mindy  Toggs.  Nobody  ever 
knew  by  what  means  he  set  himself  to  prove  it ; 
there  had  been  dark  stories  ;  but  one  day  Simon 
brought  Mindy  back  to  the  poorhouse,  declaring 
with  a  strange  emphasis  that  he  never  wanted  to 
set  eyes  on  the  blasted  fool  again,  and  Mindy  had 
learned  his  two  words. 

It  was  said  that  the  sight  of  Simon  Basset  roused 
the  idiot  to  terrific  paroxysms  of  rage  and  fear,  and 
that  Basset  never  encountered  him  if  he  could  help 
it.  However,  poor  Mindy  was  harmless  enough  to 
ordinary  folk,  sitting  day  after  day  in  the  barn  door, 
looking  out  through  the  dusty  shafts  of  sunlight, 
through  spraying  mists  of  rain,  and  often  through 
the  white  weave  of  snow,  repeating  his  two  words, 


205 


which  had  been  dinned  into  his  feeble  brain,  the 
Lord  only  knew  by  what  cruelty  and  terror — "Simon 
Basset,  Simon  Basset." 

Mincly  Toggs  was  a  terrifying  object  to  nervous 
little  Elmira  Edwards,  but  Jerome  used  often  to  bid 
her  run  along,  and  stop  himself  and  look  at  him 
soberly,  with  nothing  of  curiosity,  but  with  indig 
nant  and  sorrowful  reflection.  At  these  times  poor 
Miiidy,  if  he  had  only  known  it,  drove  his  old  mas 
ter,  who  had  illumined  his  darkness  of  mind  with 
one  cruel  flash  of  fear,  out  of  house  and  home,  and 
sat  in  his-  stead  by  his  fireside  in  warmth  and  comfort. 

Jerome  left  school  finally  when  he  was  seventeen; 
up  to  that  time  he  attended  all  the  winter  sessions. 
During  the  winter,  when  Jerome  was  seventeen,  a 
man  came  to  the  neighboring  town  of  Dale,  bought 
out  the  old  shoe-factory  and  store  there,  and  set  up 
business  on  a  more  extensive  scale,  sending  out  work 
in  large  quantities.  Many  of  the  older  boys  left 
school  on  that  account,  Jerome  among  them  ;  he  had 
special  inducements  to  do  so,  through  his  uncle  Ozias 
Lamb. 

"That  man  that  bought  out  Bill  Dickey,  over  in 
Dale,  has  been  talkin'  to  me,"  Lamb  told  Jerome  one 
evening.  "  Seems  he's  goin'  to  increase  the  business ; 
he's  laid  in  an  extra  lot  of  stock,  and  hired  two  more 
cutters,  and  he  says  he  don't  want  to  fool  with  so 
many  small  accounts,  and  he'd  rather  let  some  of  it 
out  in  big  lots.  Says,  if  I'm  willin',  I  can  take  as  much 
as  I  can  manage,  and  let  it  out  myself  for  bindin'  and 
closin',  and  he'll  pay  me  considerable  more  on  a  lot 
than  Kobinson  has,  cash  down.  Now  you  see,  J'rome, 
I'm  gettin'  older,  and  I  can't  do  much  more  finishm' 
than  I've  been  doin'  right  along.  What  I'm  comin'  at 


206 


is  this  :  s'pose  I  set  another  bench  in  here,  and  take 
the  extra,  work,  and  you  quit  school  and  go  into  busi 
ness.  I  can  learn  you  all  I  know  fast  enough.  You 
can  nigh  about  make  a  shoe  now — dun'no'  but  you  can 
quite." 

' '  Fd  have  to  leave  school,"  Jerome  said,  soberly. 

"  How  much  more  book-learnin'  do  you  think  you 
need  ?"  returned  Ozias,  with  his  hard  laugh.  "  Don't 
you  forget  that  all  you  came  into  this  world  for  was 
to  try  not  to  get  out  of  it  through  lack  of  nourish 
ment,  and  to  labor  for  life  with  the  sweat  of  your 
brow.  You  don't  need  much  eddication  for  that. 
It  ain't  with  you  as  it  was  with  Lawrence  Prescott, 
who  was  too  good  to  go  to  the  district  school,  and 
had  to  be  sent  to  Boston  to  have  a  minister  fit  him 
for  college.  You  don't  come  of  a  liberal  eddicated 
race.  You've  got  to  work  for  the  breath  of  your  nos 
trils,  and  not  for  the  breath  of  your  mind  or  your 
soul.  You'll  find  you  can't  fight  your  lot  in  life, 
J'rome  Edwards;  you  ain't  got  standm'room  enough 
outside  it." 

' '  I  don't  want  to  fight  my  lot  in  life,"  Jerome  re 
plied,  defiantly,  "  but  I  thought  I'd  go  to  school  this 
winter." 

"You  won't  grub  a  bit  better  for  one  more  winter 
of  schoolin',"  said  his  uncle,  "  and  there's  another  rea 
son — your  mother,  she's  gettin'  older,  an'  Elmira, 
she's  a  good  -  lookin'  girl,  but  she's  gettin'  wore  to 
skin  an'  bones.  They're  both  on  'ern  workin'  too 
hard.  You'd  ought  to  try  to  have  'em  let  up  a  little 
more." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  either  of  'em  lift  a  finger,  if  I 
could  help  it,  the  Lord  knows  !"  Jerome  cried, 
bitterly. 


207 


Ozias  nodded,  grimly.  "  Women  waVt  calculated 
to  work  as  hard  as  men,,  nohow/'  he  said.  "  Seems 
as  if  a  man  that's  got  hands,  an"  is  willing  might  be 
let  to  keep  the  worst  of  it  off  'em,  but  he  ain't. 
Seems  as  if  I  might  have  been  able  to  do  somethin' 
for  Ann  when  Abel  quit,  but  I  wa'n't. 

"There's  one  thing  I've  got  to  be  thankful  for, 
an'  that  is  —  a  hard  Providence  ain't  been  able  to 
hurt  Belindy  any  more  than  it  would  a  feather  piller. 
She  dints  a  little,  and  cries  out  when  she's  hurt, 
an'  then  she  settles  back  again,  smooth  and  comfort 
able  as  ever. 

"I  don't  s'pose  you'll  understand  it,  J'rome,  be 
cause  you  ain't  come  to  thinking  of  such  things  yet, 
an'  showed  your  sense  that  you  ain't,  but  I  took  that 
very  thing  into  account  when  I  picked  out  my  wife. 
There  was  another  girl  that  I  used  to  see  home  some, 
but,  Lord,  she  was  a  high  stepper  !  Handsome  as  a 
picture  she  was  ;  there  ain't  a  girl  in  this  town  to 
day  that  can  compare  with  her  ;  but  her  head  was 
up,  an'  her  nose  quiverin',  an'  her  eyes  shinin'.  I 
knew  she  liked  me  pretty  well,  but,  Lord,  it  was  no 
use  !  Might  as  well  have  set  a  blooded  mare  to  plough- 
in'.  She  was  one  of  the  sort  that  wouldn't  have 
bent  under  hardship;  she'd  have  broke.  I  knew 
well  enough  what  a  dog-life  a  wife  of  mine  would  have 
to  lead — jest  enough  to  kqep  body  and  soul  together, 
an'  no  extras — an'  I  wa'n't  goiii'  to  drag  her  into  it, 
an'  I  didn't.  I  knew  just  how  she'd  strain,  an'  work 
her  pretty  fingers  to  the  bone  to  try  to  keep  up.  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  married  at  all  I'd  marry 
somebody  that  wouldn't  work  more'n  she  could  possi 
bly  help — not  if  we  were  poor  as  Job's  off  ox. 

"  So  I  looked  'round  an'  got  Belindy.     I  spelled 


208 


her  out  right  the  first  time  I  see  her.  She  'ain't  had 
nothing  but  I  dun'no'  but  she's  been  jest  as  happy  as 
if  she  had.  I  'ain't  let  her  work  hard;  she  'ain't 
never  bound  shoes  nor  done  anythin'  to  earn  a  dollar 
since  I  married  her.  Couldn't  have  kept  the  other 
one  from  doin'  it." 

"What  became  of  her?"  asked  Jerome. 

"  Dead/'  replied  Ozias. 

Jerome  asked  nothing  further.  It  ended  in  his 
leaving  school  and  going  to  work.  This  course  met 
with  some  opposition  from  his  mother,  who  had 
madly  ambitious  plans  for  him.  She  had  influenced 
Elmira  to  leave  school  the  year  before,  that  she  might 
earn  more,  and  thereby  enable  her  brother  to  study 
longer,  but  he  knew  nothing  of  that. 

However,  a  plan  which  Jerome  formed  for  some 
evening  lessons  with  the  school-master  appeased  her. 
It  savored  of  a  private  tutor'  like  Lawrence  Pres- 
cott's.  Nobody  knew  how  Ann  Edwards  had  re 
sented  Doctor  Prescott's  sending  his  son  to  Boston 
to  be  fitted  for  college,  while  hers  could  have  noth 
ing  better  than  a  few  terms  at  the  district  school. 
Her  jealous  bitterness  was  enhanced  twofold  because 
her  poor  husband  was  gone,  and  the  memory  of  his 
ambition  for  his  son  stung  her  to  sharper  effort. 
Often  the  imagined  disappointments  of  the  dead, 
when  they  are  still  loved  and  unforgotten,  weigh 
more  heavily  upon  the  living  than  their  own.  "  I 
dun'no'  what  your  father  would  have  said  if  he'd 
thought  Jerome  had  got  to  leave  school  so  young," 
she  told  Elmira;  and  her  lost  husband's  grievance 
in  the  matter  was  nearer  her  heart  than  her  own. 

Jerome's  plan  for  evening  lessons  did  not  work 
long.  The  school-master  to  whom  he  applied  pro- 


209 


fessed  his  entire  readiness,  even  enthusiasm,  to  fur 
ther  such  a  laudable  pursuit  of  knowledge  under 
difficulties  ;  but  he  was  young  himself,  scarcely  out 
of  college,  and  the  pretty  girls  in  his  school  swayed 
his  impressionable  nature  into  many  side  issues,  even 
when  his  mind  was  set  upon  the  main  track.  Soon 
Jerome  found  himself  of  an  evening  in  the  midst  of 
a  class  of  tittering  girls,  who  also  had  been  fired  with 
zeal  for  improvement  and  classical  learning,  who 
conjugated  amo  with  foolish  blushes  and  glances  of 
sugared  sweetness  at  himself  and  the  teacher.  Then 
he  left. 

Jerome  at  that  time  felt  absolutely  no  need  of  the 
feminine  element  in  creation,  holding  himself  aloof 
from  it  with  a  patient,  because  measureless,  superior 
ity.  Sometimes  in  growth  the  mental  strides  into  life 
ahead  of  the  physical ;  sometimes  it  is  the  other  way. 
At  seventeen  Jerome's  mind  took  the  lead  of  his 
body,  and  the  imaginations  thereof,  though  he  was 
well  grown  and  well  favored,  and  young  girls  placed 
themselves  innocently  in  his  way  and  looked  back 
for  him  to  follow. 

Jerome's  cold,  bright  glances  met  theirs,  full  of  the 
artless  appeal  of  love  and  passion,  shameless  because 
as  yet  unrecognized,  and  then  he  turned  away  with 
disdain. 

"  I  came  here  to  learn  Latin  and  higher  algebra, 
not  to  fool  with  a  pack  of  girls,"  he  told  the  school 
master,  bluntly.  The  young  man  laughed  and  colored. 
He  was  honest  and  good ;  passion  played  over  him 
like  wildfire,  not  with  any  heat  for  injury,  but  with  a 
dazzle  to  blind  and  charm. 

He  did  not  intend  to  marry  until  he  had  well 
established  himself  in  life,  and  would  not ;  but  in  the 

14 


210 


meantime  he  gave  his  resolution  as  loose  a  rein  as 
possible,  and  conjugated  amo  with  shades  of  mean 
ing  with  every  girl  in  the  class. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  can  do,  Edwards,"  he  said. 
"I  cannot  turn  the  girls  out,  and  I  could  not  re 
fuse  them  an  equal  privilege  with  you,  when  they 
asked  it." 

Jerome  gave  the  school-master  a  look  of  such 
entire  comprehension  and  consequent  scorn  that  he 
fairly  cast  down  his  eyes  before  him ;  then  he  went 
out  with  his  books  under  his  arm. 

He  paid  for  his  few  lessons  with  the  first  money  he 
could  save,  in  spite  of  the  school -masters  remon 
strances. 

After  that  Jerome  went  on  doggedly  with  his  stud 
ies  by  himself,  and  asked  assistance  from  nobody. 
In  the  silent  night,  after  his  mother  and  sister  were 
in  bed,  he  wrestled  all  alone  with  the  angel  of 
knowledge,  and  half  the  time  knew  not  whether  he 
was  smitten  hip  and  thigh  or  was  himself  the  victor. 
Many  a  problem  in  his  higher  algebra  Jerome  was 
never  sure  of  having  solved  rightly;  renderings  of 
many  lines  in  his  battered  old  Virgil,  bought  for  a 
sixpence  of  a  past  collegian  in  Dale,  might,  and  might 
not,  have  been  correct. 

However,  if  he  got  nothing  else  from  his  studies, 
he  got  the  discipline  of  mental  toil,  and  did  not 
spend  his  whole  strength  in  the  labor  of  his  hands. 

Jerome  pegged  and  closed  shoes  with  an  open 
book  on  the  bench  beside  him ;  he  measured  his  steps 
with  conjugations  of  Latin  verbs  when  he  walked 
to  Dale  with  his  finished  work  over  shoulder;  he 
studied  every  spare  moment,  when  his  daily  task  was 
done,  and  kept  this  up,  from  a  youthful  and  un- 


211 


reasoning  thirst  for  knowledge  and  defiance  of  ob 
stacles,  until  he  was  twenty-one.  Then  one  day  he 
packed  away  all  his  old  school-books,  and  never  studied 
them  again  regularly ;  for  something  happened  which 
gave  his  energy  the  force  of  reason,  and  set  him 
firmly  in  a  new  track  with  a  definite  end  in  view. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ONE  evening,  not  long  after  his  twenty-first  birth 
day,  Jerome  Edwards  went  to  Cyrus  Robinson's  store 
on  an  errand. 

When  he  entered  he  found  a  large  company  assem 
bled,  swinging  booted  legs  over  the  counters,  perched 
upon  barrels  and  kegs,  or  tilting  back  in  the  old  scoop 
ing  arm-chairs  around  the  red-hot  stove.  These  last 
were  the  seats  devoted  to  honor  and  age,  when  pres 
ent,  and  they  were  worthily  filled  that  night.  Men 
who  seldom  joined  the  lounging,  gossiping  circle  in 
the  village  store  were  there  :  Lawyer  Means,  John 
Jennings,  Colonel  Lamson,  Squire  Merritt,  even  Doc 
tor  Seth  Prescott,  and  the  minister,  Solomon  Wells. 

The  recent  town-meeting,  the  elections  and  appro 
priations,  accounted  in  some  measure  for  this  unusual 
company,  though  the  bitter  weather  might  have  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  Hard  it  was  for  any  man 
that  night  to  pass  windows  glowing  with  firelight, 
and  the  inward  swing  of  hospitable  doors ;  harder  it 
was,  when  once  within  the  radius  of  warmth  and  hu 
man  cheer,  to  leave  it  and  plunge  again  into  that 
darkness  of  winter  and  death,  which  seemed  like  the 
very  outer  desolation  of  souls. 

The  Squire's  three  cronies  had  been  on  their  way 
to  cards  and  punch  with  him,  but  the  winking  radi 
ance  of  the  store  windows  had  lured  them  inside  to 
warm  themselves  a  bit  before  another  half-mile  down 


213 


the  frozen  road  ;  and  once  there,  sunken  into  the  bat 
tered  hollows  of  the  arm-chairs,  within  the  swimming 
warmth  from  the  stove,  they  had  remained.  Their 
prospective  host,  Squire  Eben  Merritt,  also  had  short 
ly  arrived,  in  quest  of  lemons  for  the  brewing  of  his 
famous  punch,  and  had  been  nothing  loath  to  await 
the  pleasure  of  his  guests. 

The  minister  had  come  in  giddy,  as  if  with  strong 
drink,  being  unable,  even  with  the  steady  gravity  of 
his  mind,  to  control  the  chilly  trembling  of  his  thin 
old  shanks  in  their  worn  black  broadcloth.  His  cloak 
was  thin  ;  his  daughter  had  tied  a  little  black  silk 
shawl  of  her  own  around  his  neck  for  further  protec 
tion  ;  his  mildly  ascetic  old  face  peered  over  it,  fairly 
mouthing  and  chattering  with  the  cold.  He  could 
scarcely  salute  the  company  in  his  customary  reverend 
and  dignified  manner. 

Squire  Eben  sprang  up  and  placed  his  own  chair  in 
a  warmer  corner  for  him,  and  the  minister  was  not 
averse  to  settling  therein  and  postponing  for  a  season 
the  purchase  of  a  quarter  pound  of  tea,  and  his  shiv 
ering  homeward  pilgrimage. 

Doctor  Seth  Prescott,  who  lived  nearly  across  the 
way,  had  come  over  after  supper  to  prescribe  for  the 
storekeeper's  wife,  who  had  lumbago,  and  joined  the 
circle  around  the  stove,  seeing  within  it  such  wor 
thy  companions  as  the  lawyer  and  the  Squire,  and 
having  room  made  promptly  and  deferentially  for 
him. 

The  discussion  had  been  running  high  upon  the 
subject  of  town  appropriations  for  the  poor,  until 
Doctor  Prescott  entered  and  the  grating  arm-chairs 
made  place  for  him,  when*  there  was  a  hush  for  a  mo 
ment.  Ozias  Lamb,  hunched  upon  a  keg  on  the  out- 


214 


skirts,  smiled  sardonically  around  at  Adoniram  Judd 
standing  behind  him. 

"  Cat's  come,"  he  said ;  "now  the  mice  stop  squeak- 
in'."  The  men  near  him  chuckled. 

Simon  Basset,  who,  having  arrived  first,  had  the 
choice  of  seats,  and  was  stationed  in  the  least  rickety 
arm-chair  the  farthest  from  draught's,  ceased  for  a 
moment  the  rotatory  motion  of  lantern  jaws  and  freed 
his  mind  upon  the  subject  of  the  undue  appropria 
tions  for  the  poor. 

"Ain't  a  town  of  this  size  in  the  State  begins  to 
lay  out  the  money  we  do  to  keep  them  good-for- 
nothin'  paupers,"  said  he,  and  chewed  again  con 
clusively. 

Doctor  Prescott,  not  as  yet  condescending  to  speak, 
had  made  a  slight  motion  and  frown  of  dissent,  which 
the  minister  at  his  elbow  saw.  Doctor  Prescott  was 
his  pillar  of  the  sanctuary,  upholding  himself  and 
his  pulpit  from  financial  and  doctrinal  downfall — his 
pillar  even  of  ideas  and  individual  movements.  Poor 
old  Solomon  Wells  fairly  walked  his  road  of  life  at 
tached  with  invisible  leading-strings  to  Doctor  Seth 
Prescott.  He  spoke  when  Simon  Basset  paused, 
and  more  from  his  mentor's  volition  than  his  own. 
t(  The  poor  ye  have  always  with  ye,"  said  the  min 
ister,  with  pious  and  weighty  dissent.  Doctor  Pres 
cott  nodded. 

Ozias  Lamb  squinted  slowly  around  with  ineffable 
sarcasm  of  expression.  He  took  in  deliberately  every 
detail  of  the  two  men — Doctor  Seth  Prescott,  the 
smallest  in  physical  stature  of  anybody  there,  yet  as 
marked  among  them  all  as  some  local  Napoleon,  and 
the  one  whom  a  stranger  would  first  have  noted,  and 
the  old  clergyman  leaning  towards  him  with  a  subtle 


215 


inclination  of  mind  as  well  as  body;  then  he  spoke 
as  Jerome  entered. 

Jerome  laid  the  empty  sack,  which  he  had  brought 
for  meal,  on  the  counter,  and  stood  about  to  listen 
with  the  rest.  Squire  Eben  Merritt,  having  given 
his  chair  to  the  minister  and  squared  up  his  great 
shoulders  against  a  pile  of  boxes  on  the  counter,  was 
near  him,  and  saluted  him  with  a  friendly  nod,  which 
Jerome  returned  with  a  more  ardent  flash  of  his  black 
eyes  than  ever  a  girl  had  called  forth  yet.  Jerome 
adored  this  kindly  Squire,  against  whom  he  was  al 
ways  fiercely  on  his  guard  lest  he  tender  him  gratui 
tous  favors,  and  his  indebtedness  to  whom  was  his 
great  burden  of  life. 

His  Uncle  Ozias  did  not  notice  him  or  pause  in 
his  harangue.  "The  poor  ye  have  always  with  ye, 
the  poor  ye  have  always  with  ye,''  he  was  repeating, 
with  a  very  snarl  of  sarcasm.  " I  reckon  ye  do;  an' 
why  ?  Why  is  it  that  folks  had  the  Man  that  give 
that  sayin'  to  the  world  with  'em,  and  made  Him 
suifer  and  die  ?  It  was  the  same  reason  for  both. 
D'ye  want  to  know  what  'twas  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  yc — 
it  don't  take  a  very  sharp  mind  to  ferret  that  out. 
It  don't  even  take  college  larnin'.  It  is  because  from 
the  very  foundation  of  this  green  airth  the  rich  and 
the  wicked  and  the  proud  have  had  the  mastery  over 
it,  an'  their  horns  have  been  exalted.  The  Lord 
knows  they've  got  horns  to  their  own  elevation  an' 
the  hurt  of  others,  as  much  as  any  horned  animals, 
though  none  of  us  can  see  'em  sproutin',  no  matter 
how  hard  we  squint." 

With  that  Ozias  Lamb  gave  a  quick  glance,  pointed 
with  driest  humor,  from  under  his  bent  brows  at  Si 
mon  Basset's  great  jungle  of  gray  hair  and  Doctor 


216 


Prescott's  spidery  sprawl  of  red  wig.  A  subdued 
and  half-alarmed  chuckle  ran  through  the  company. 
Simon  Basset  chewed  imperturbably,  but  Doctor  Seth 
Prescott's  handsome  face  was  pale  with  controlled 
wrath. 

Ozias  continued  :  "I  tell  ye  that  is  the  reason  for 
all  the  suffering  an'  the  wrongs,  an'  the  crucifixion, 
on  this  earth.  The  rich  are  the  reason  for  it  all ;  the 
rich  are  the  reason  for  the  poor.  If  the  money  wa'n't 
in  one  pocket  it  would  be  in  many;  if  the  bread 
waVt  all  in  one  cupboard  there  wouldn't  be  so  many 
empty;  if  all  the  garments  wa'n't  packed  away  in 
one  chest  there  wouldn't  so  many  go  bare.  There's 
money  enough,  an'  food  enough,  an'  clothes  enough 
in  this  very  town  for  the  whole  lot,  an'  it's  the  few 
that  holds  'em  that  makes  the  paupers." 

Doctor  Seth  Prescott's  mouth  was  a  white  line  of 
suppression.  Some  of  the  men  exchanged  glances 
of  consternation.  Cyrus  Eobinson's  clerk,  Samson 
Loud,  leaning  over  the  counter  beside  his  employer, 
said,  "I  swan!"  under  his  breath.  As  for  Cyrus 
Eobinson,  he  was  doubtful  whether  or  not  to  order 
this  turbulent  spirit  out  of  his  domain,  especially 
since  he  was  no  longer  a  good  customer  of  his,  but 
worked  for  and  traded  with  the  storekeeper  in  Dale. 

He  looked  around  at  his  son  Elisha,  who  was  mar 
ried  now  these  three  years  to  Abigail  Mack,  had  two 
children,  and  a  share  in  the  business ;  but  he  got  no 
suggestion  from  him.  Elisha,  who  had  grown  very 
stout,  sat  comfortably  on  a  half-barrel  of  sugar  in 
side  the  counter,  sucking  a  stick  of  peppermint 
candy,  unmoved  by  anything,  even  the  entrance  of 
his  old  enemy,  Jerome.  As  Cyrus  Robinson  was 
making  up  his  mind  to  say  something,  Doctor  Seth 


217 


Prescott  spoke,  coldly  and  magisterially,  without 
moving  a  muscle  in  his  face,  which  was  like  a  fine 
pale  mask. 

"May  I  ask  Mr.  Lamb,"  he  said,  "how  long,  in 
his  judgment,  when  the  money  shall  have  been  di 
vided  and  poured  from  one  purse  into  many  others, 
when  the  loaves  shall  have  been  distributed  among 
all  the  empty  cupboards,  and  when  all  the  surplus 
garments  have  been  portioned  out  to  the  naked,  this 
happy  state  of  equal  possessions  will  last  ?" 

"Well,"  replied  Ozias  Lamb,  slowly,  "I  should 
say,  takiii'  all  things  into  consideration — the  graspin' 
qualities  of  them  that  had  been  rich,  and  the  spillin' 
qualities  of  them  that  had  been  poor,  about  fourteen 
hours  an'  three-quarters.  I  might  make  it  twenty- 
four — I  s'pose  some  might  hang  on  to  it  overnight — 
but  I  guess  on  the  whole  it's  safer  to  call  it  fourteen 
an7  three-quarters." 

"  Well,"  returned  Doctor  Prescott,  "what  then, 
Mr.  Lamb  ?" 

"  Give  it  back  again,"  said  Ozias,  shortly. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  gave  a  great  shout  of  mirth. 
"  By  the  Lord  Harry,"  he  cried,  "  that's  an  idea  !" 

"  It  is  an  entirely  erroneous  system  of  charity 
which  you  propose,  Mr.  Lamb,"  said  Doctor  Pres 
cott  ;  "  such  a  constant  disturbance  and  shifting  of 
the  property  balance  would  shake  the  financial  basis 
of  the  whole  country.  Our  present  system  of  one 
public  charity,  to  include  all  the  poor  of  the  town,  is 
the  only  available  one,  in  the  judgment  of  the  ablest 
philanthropists  in  the  country. " 

Ozias  Lamb  got  off  his  keg,  straightened  his  bowed 
shoulders  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and  raised  his  right 
hand.  "You  call  the  poorhouse  righteous  charity, 


218 


do  ye,  Doctor  Seth  Prescott  ?"  he  demanded.  "You 
call  it  givin'  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ?" 

Doctor  Prescott  made  no  response ;  indeed,  Ozias 
did  not  wait  for  one.  He  plunged  on  in  a  very  fury 
of  crude  oratory. 

"  It  ain't  charity !"  he  cried.  "  I.  tell  ye  what  it  is 
— it's  a  pushin'  an'  hustlin'  of  the  poor  oif  the  steps 
of  the  temple,  an'  your  own  door-steps  an'  door-paths, 
to  get  'em  out  of  your  sight  an'  sound,  where  your 
purple  an'  fine  linen  won't  sweep  against  their  rags, 
an'  your  delicate  ears  won't  hear  their  groans,  an* 
your  delicate  eyes  an'  nose  won't  see  nor  scent  their 
sores ;  where  you  yourselves,  with  your  own  hands, 
won't  have  to  nurse  an'  tend  'em.  I  tell  ye,  that  rich 
man  in  Scriptur'  was  a  damned  fool  not  to  start  a 
poorhouse,  an'  not  have  Lazaruses  layin'  round  his 
gate.  He'd  have  been  more  comfortable,  an'  meble 
he'd  have  cheated  hell  so. 

"  You  call  it  givin' — givin' !  You  call  livin'  in  that 
house  over  there  in  the  holler,  workin'  with  rheumatic 
old  joints,  an'  wearin'  stiff  old  fingers  to  the  bone,  not 
for  honest  hire,  but  for  the  bread  of  charity,  a  gift,  do 
ye  ?  I  tell  ye,  every  pauper  in  that  there  house  that's 
got  his  senses  after  what  he's  been  through,  knows 
that  he  pays  for  every  cent  he  costs  the  town,  either 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  an'  the  labor  of  his  feeble 
hands,  or  by  the  independence  of  his  soul." 

Then  Simon  Basset  spat,  and  shifted  his  quid  and 
spoke.  "  Tell  ye  what  'tis,  all  of  ye,"  said  he — "  it's 
mighty  easy  talkin'  an'  givin'  away  gab  instead  of 
dollars.  I'll  bet  ye  anything  ye'll  put  up  that  there 
ain't  one  of  ye  out  of  the  whole  damned  lot  that 
'ain't  got  any  money  that  would  give  it  away  if  he 
had  it." 


219 


"  I  would,"  declared  a  clear  young  voice  from  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd.  Everybody  turned  and 
looked,  and  saw  Jerome  beside  Squire  Merritt,  his 
handsome  face  all  eager  and  challenging.  Jerome 
was  nearly  as  tall  as  the  Squire,  though  more  slender, 
and  there  was  not  a  handsomer  young  fellow  in  the 
village.  He  had,  in  spite  of  his  shoemaking,  a  car 
riage  like  a  prince,  having  overcome  by  some  erect- 
ness  of  his  spirit  his  hereditary  stoop. 

Simon  Basset  looked  at  him.  "If  ye  had  a  big 
fortune  left  ye,  s'pose  ye'd  give  it  all  away,  would  ye  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  would."  Jerome  blushed  a  little 
with  a  brave  modesty  before  the  concentrated  fire  of 
eyes,  but  he  never  unbent  his  proud  young  neck  as 
he  faced  Simon  Basset. 

"  S'pose  ye'd  give  away  every  dollar  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  would — every  dollar." 

"Lord!"  ejaculated  Simon  Basset,  and  his  bris 
tling,  grimy  jaws  worked  again. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  looked  at  Jerome  almost  as 
he  might  have  done  at  his  pretty  Lucina.  "By  the 
Lord  Harry,  I  believe  you  would,  boy !"  he  said,  under 
his  breath. 

"  Such  idle  talk  is  not  to  the  purpose,"  Doctor 
Seth  Prescott  said,  with  a  stately  aside  to  the  minis 
ter,  who  nodded  with  the  utter  accordance  of  motion 
'  of  any  satellite. 

But  Simon  Basset  spoke  again,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
hit  the  doctor,  who  sat  next  him,  a  hard  nudge  in 
his  broadcloth  side  with  a  sharp  elbow.  "  Stan'  ye 
any  amount  ye  want  to  put  up  that  that  young  bob- 
squirt  won't  give  away  a  damned  dollar,  if  he  ever 
gits  it  to  give,"  he  said,  with  a  wink  of  curious  con 
fidential  scorn. 


220 


"I  do  not  bet/'  replied  the  doctor,  shortly. 

"Lord  !  ye  needn't  be  pertickler,  doctor;  it's  safe 
'nough,"  returned  Simon  Basset,  with  a  sly  roll  of 
facetious  eyes  towards  the  company. 

The  doctor  deigned  no  further  reply. 

"  Fll  stan'  any  man  in  this  company  anything  he'll 
put  up/'  cried  Simon  Basset,  who  was  getting  aroused 
to  a  singular  energy. 

Nobody  responded.  Squire  Eben  Merritt,  indeed, 
opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  then  turned  it  off  with 
a  laugh.  "  I'd  make  the  bet,  boy/'  he  whispered  to 
Jerome,  "  if  it  were  anybody  else  that  proposed  it, 
but  that  old- 
Simon  Basset  stood  up  ;  the  men  looked  at  him 
with  wonder.  His  eyes  glowed  with  strange  fire. 
The  lawyer  eyed  him  keenly.  "I  should  think  from 
his  face  that  the  man  was  defending  himself  in  the 
dock/'  he  whispered  to  Colonel  Lamson. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what  Fll  do,  then/'  shouted  Simon 
Basset,  "if  ye  won't  none  of  ye  take  me  up.  Fll  be 
damned  if  I  believe  that  any  rich  man  on  the  face  of 
this  earth  is  capable  of  givin'  away  every  dollar  he's 
got,  for  the  fear  of  the  Lord  or  the  love  of  his  fellow- 
men.  Fll  be  damned  if  I  believe,  if  the  Lord  Al 
mighty  spoke  to  him  from  on  high,  and  told  him  to, 
he'd  do  it,  an'  Fm  goin'  to  prove  that  I  don't  believe 
it.  I'll  tell  ye  all  what  I'll  do.  Lawyer  Means  is 
here,  an'  he  can  take  it  down  in  black  an'  white,  if 
he  wants  to,  an'  I'll  sign  it  reg'lar  an'  have  it  wit 
nessed.  If  that  young  man  there,"  he  pointed  at 
Jerome,  "ever  comes  into  any  property,  an'  gives 
away  every  dollar  of  it,  I'll  give  away  one  quarter  of 
all  Fve  got  in  the  world  to  the  poor  of  this  town, 
an'  I'll  take  my  oath  on  it. 


221 


"  But  there's  more  than  that/'  continued  Simon 
Basset.  "  I'll  get  a  condition  before  I  do  it.  I  call 
on  my  fellow-townsman  here — I  won't  say  my  fellow- 
Christian,  'cause  he  wouldn't  think  that  much  of  a 
compliment — to  do  the  same  thing.  If  he'll  do  it, 
I  will;  if  he  won't,  I  won't."  Simon  Basset  looked 
down  at  Doctor  Prescott  with  malicious  triumph. 
Everybody  stared  at  the  two  men. 

"Why  don't  ye  speak  up,  doctor — hey?"  asked 
Simon  Basset,  finally. 

"Because  I  do  not  consider  such  an  outrageous 
proposition  worthy  of  consideration,  Mr.  Basset," 
returned  the  doctor,  with  a  calm  aside  elevation  of 
his  clear  profile,  and  not  the  slightest  quickening  of 
his  even  voice. 

"  Then  ye  don't  believe  there's  a  man  liyin'  capa 
ble  of  givin'  away  his  all  for  the  Lord  an'  His  poor 
any  more'n  I  do,  an'  I  calculate  you  jedge  so  from 
the  workin's  of  your  own  heart  an'  knowin'  what 
you'd  do  in  like  case,  jest  like  me,"  said  Simon 
Basset. 

Doctor  Prescott  made  a  quick  motion,  and  the 
color  flashed  over  his  thin  face.  "  I  made  no  such 
assertion,"  he  said,  hotly,  for  his  temper  at  last  was 
up  over  his  icy  bonds  of  will. 

"Looks  so,"  said  Simon  Basset. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  make  such  a  statement, 
sir,"  returned  the  doctor,  and  his  lips  seemed  to  cut 
the  air  like  scissors. 

"What  is  it,  then  ?"  returned  the  other.  "Are 
you  afraid  the  young  fellow  will  come  into  proper 
ty,  an'  then  you'll  have  to  give  up  too  much  to  the 
Lord  ?" 

The  veins  on  Doctor  Prescott's  forehead  swelled 


222 


visibly  as  he  looked  at  Simon  Basset's  hateful,  ban 
tering  face. 

"There's  another  thing  I'm  willin'  to  promise/' 
continued  Simon  Basset.  "If  that  young  feller 
comes  into  money,  an'  gives  it  aAvay,  I'll  do  more 
than  give  away  a  quarter  of  my  property — I'll  believe 
anything  after  that.  I'll  get  religion.  But — I  won't 
agree  to  do  that  unless  you  back  me  up,  doctor. 
That  ought  to  induce  you — the  prospect  of  savin'  a 
brand  from  the  burnin' ;  an'  if  I  ain't  a  brand,  I 
dun'no'  who  is." 

"I  tell  you,  sir,  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  !" 
shouted  Doctor  Prescott.  The  minister  at  his  side 
looked  pale  and  scared  as  a  woman. 

"Then,"  said  Simon  Basset,  "it's  settled.  You 
an'  me  won't  agree  to  no  sech  damn  foolishness,  be 
cause  we  both  on  us  know  that  there's  no  sech  Chris 
tian  charity  an'  love  as  that  in  the  world ;  an'  if  there 
should  turn  out  to  be,  we're  afraid  we'd  have  to  do 
likewise.  I  thought  I  was  safe  enough  proposin' 
sech  a  plan,  doctor." 

There  was  a  great  shout  of  laughter,  in  spite  of 
the  respect  for  Doctor  Prescott.  In  the  midst  of  it 
the  doctor  sprang  to  his  feet,  looking  as  none  of 
them  had  ever  seen  him  look  before.  "  Get  a  paper 
and  pen  and  ink,"  he  cried,  turning  to  Lawyer  Means ; 
"  draw  up  the  document  that  this  man  proposes,  and 
I  will  sign  it !" 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE  paper  which  Lawyer  Eliphalet  Means,  stand 
ing  at  the  battered  and  hacked  old  desk  whereon 
Cyrus  Eobinson  made  out  his  accounts,  drew  up 
with  a  sputtering  quill  pen  —  at  which  he  swore 
under  his  breath  —  was  as  fully  elaborated  and  as 
formal  in  every  detail  as  his  legal  knowledge  could 
make  it.  Apostrophizing  it  openly,  before  he  began, 
as  damned  nonsense,  he  was  yet  not  without  a  certain 
delight  in  the  task.  It  was  quite  easy  to  see  that 
Simon  Basset,  whatever  motive  he  might  have  had 
in  his  proposition,  was  beyond  measure  terrified  at 
its  acceptance.  With  his  bristling  chin  dropping 
nervously,  and  his  forehead  contracted  with  anxious 
wrinkles,  he  questioned  Jerome. 

"Look  at  here,"  he  said,  with  a  tight  clutch  on 
Jerome's  sleeve,  "I  want  to  know,  young  man. 
There  ain't  110  property  anywheres  in  your  family,  is 
there  ?  There  ain't  no  second  nor  third  nor  fourth 
cousins  out  West  anywheres  that's  got  property  ?" 

"No,  there  are  not,"  said  Jerome,  impatiently 
shaking  off  his  hand. 

"Your  father  didn't  have  no  uncle  that  had 
money  ?" 

"I  tell  you  there  isn't  a  dollar  in  the  family  that 
I  know  of,"  cried  Jerome.  "I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  all  this,  and  I  want  you  to  understand  it.  All 
I  said  was,  and  I  say  it  now,  if  in  any  way  any  money 


224 


should  ever  fall  to  me,  I  would  give  it  away ;  and  I 
will,  whether  anybody  else  does  or  not." 

"You  don't  mean  money  you  earn;  you  mean 
money  that  falls  to  you — " 

"  I  mean  if  ever  I  get  enough  money  in  a  lump 
to  make  rne  rich,"  replied  Jerome,  doggedly. 

"  I  want  to  know  how  much  money  you  are  goin' 
to  call  rich,"  demanded  Simon  Basset. 

"Ten  thousand  dollars,"  replied  Jerome,  whose 
estimate  of  wealth  was  not  large. 

Simon  Basset  cried  out  with  sharp  protest  at  that, 
and  Doctor  Prescott  evidently  agreed  with  him. 

"Any  man  might  scrape  together  ten  thousand 
dollars,"  said  Basset.  "Lord!  he  might  steal -that 
much." 

The  amount  of  wealth  which  the  document  should 
specify  was  finally  fixed  at  twenty-five  thousand  dol 
lars,  which  was,  moreover,  to  come  into  Jerome's  pos 
session  in  full  bulk  and  during  the  next  ten  years, 
or  the  obligation  would  be  null  and  void. 

Basset  also  insisted  upon  the  stipulation  that  Je 
rome,  in  his  giving,  should  not  include  his  immedi 
ate  family.  "  I've  seen  men  shift  their  purses  into 
women  folks'  pockets,  an'  take  'em  out  again,  when 
they  got  ready,  before  now,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  goin' 
to  have  no  such  gum-game  as  that  played." 

That  proposition  met  with  some  little  demur., 
though  not  from  Jerome. 

" Might  just  as  well  say  I  wouldn't  agree  not  to 
give  mother  and  Elmira  the  moon,  if  it  fell  to  me," 
he  said  to  Squire  Merritt. 

The  Squire  nodded.  "  Let  'em  put  it  any  way  they 
want  to,"  he  said  ;  "it  can't  hurt  you  any.  Means 
knows  what  he's  about.  I  tell  you  that  old  fox  of  a 


225 


Basset  feels  as  if  the  dogs  were  after  him."  The 
Squire  was  highly  amused,  but  Jerome  did  not  re 
gard  it  as  quite  a  laughing  matter.  He  wondered 
angrily  if  they  were  making  fun  of  him,  and  would 
have  flown  out  at  the  whole  of  them,  with  all  his 
young  impetuosity,  had  not  Squire  Eben  restrained 
him. 

"  Easy,  boy,  easy/'  he  whispered.  "  It  won't  do  you 
any  harm." 

The  instrument,  as  drawn  up  by  Lawyer  Means, 
also  stipulated,  at  Simon  Basset's  insistence,  that 
the  said  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  should  come 
into  Jerome's  possession  within  ten  years  from  date, 
and  be  given  away  by  him  within  one  month's  time 
after  his  acquisition  of  the  same.  Lawyer  Means, 
without  objection,  filed  carefully  all  Basset's  pre 
cautionary  conditions  ;  then  he  proceeded  to  make 
it  clearly  evident,  with  no  danger  of  quibble,  that 
"in  case  the  said  Jerome  Edwards  should  comply 
with  all  the  said  conditions,  the  said  Doctor  Seth 
Prescott  and  Simon  Basset,  Esquire,  of  Upham  Cor 
ners,  do  covenant  and  engage  by  these  presents  to 
remise,  release,  give,  and  forever  quitclaim,  each  of 
the  aforesaid,  one-quarter  of  the  property  of  which 
he  may  at  the  time  of  the  acquisition  by  the  said 
Jerome  Edwards  of  the  said  twenty -five  thousand 
dollars,  stand  possessed,  to  all  those  persons  of  adult 
age  residing  within  the  boundaries  of  the  town  of 
Upham  Corners  who  shall  not  own  at  the  time 
of  said  acquisition  homesteads  free  of  encumbrance 
and  the  sum  of  twelve  thousand  dollars  in  bank, 
to  be  divided  among  the  aforesaid  in  equal  meas 
ure. 

"In  witness  whereof  we,  the   said  Doctor   Seth 

15 


226 


Prescott  and  Simon  Basset,  have  hereunto  set  our 
hands  and  seals/'  etc. 

This  document,  being  duly  signed,  sealed,  and  de 
livered  in  the  presence  of  the  witnesses  John  Jen 
nings,  Eben  Merritt,  Esquire,  and  Cyrus  Robinson, 
was  stored  away  in  the  pocket  of  Lawyer  Eliphalet 
Means's  surtout,  to  be  later  locked  safely  in  his  iron 
box  of  valuables. 

Simon  Basset's  writing  lore  was  limited,  being, 
many  claimed,  confined  to  the  ability  to  sign  his 
name,  and  even  that  seemed  likely  in  this  case  to  fail 
him.  Simon  Basset  faltered  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
either  his  name  or  his  spelling,  and  it  was  truly  a 
strange  signature  when  done,  full  of  sharp  slants  of 
rebellion  and  curves  of  indecision.  As  for  Doctor 
Seth  Prescott,  who  had  sat  aloof,  with  a  fine  with 
drawn  majesty,  all  through  the  discussion,  when  it  was 
signified  to  him  that  everything  was  in  readiness  for 
his  signature  he  arose,  went  to  the  desk  amid  a  hush  of 
attention,  and  signed  his  name  in  characters  like  the 
finest  copper-plate.  Then  he  went  out  of  the  store 
without  a  word,  and  the  minister,  forgetting  his  quar 
ter  of  tea,  slid  after  him  as  noiselessly  as  his  shadow. 

Lawyer  Means,  when  once  out  in  the  frosty  night 
with  his  three  mates,  bound  at  last  for  cards  and  punch, 
shook  his  long  sides  with  husky  merriment.  "I  tell 
you,"  he  said,  "if  I  were  worth  enough,  Fd  give  ev 
ery  dollar  of  the  twenty-five  thousand  to  that  boy 
before  morning,  just  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Prescott 
and  Basset." 

"  Of  course,  when  it  comes  to  a  question  of  legality, 
that  document  isn't  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on/' 
the  Colonel  said,  chuckling. 

"Of  course,"  replied  the  lawyer,  dryly.    "Basset 


227 


didn't  know  it,  though,  nor  Jerome,  nor  scarcely  a 
soul  in  the  store  beside." 

"Doctor  Prescott  did." 

"I  suppose  so,  or  he  wouldn't  have  signed." 

"  Do  you  think  the  boy  would  live  up  to  his  part 
of  the  bargain?"  asked  the  Colonel,  who,  being  some 
what  gouty  of  late  years,  limped  slightly  on  the  frozen 
ground. 

' '  Fd  stake  every  cent  I've  got  in  the  world  on  it," 
cried  Squire  Eben  Merritt,  striding  ahead—"  every 
cent,  sir !" 

"  Well,  there's  no  chance  of  his  being  put  to  the 
test,"  said  Lamson. 

"  Chance  !"  exclaimed  the  lawyer.  "  Good  heavens ! 
You  might  as  well  talk  of  his  chance  of  inheriting 
the  throne  of  the  Cassars.  I  know  the  Edwards 
family,  and  I  knoAV  Jerome's  mother's  family,  root 
and  branch,  and  there  isn't  five  thousand  dollars 
among  them  down  to  the  sixth  cousins ;  and  as  for 
the  boy's  accumulating  it  himself — where  are  the 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  in  these  parts  for  him  to 
accumulate  in  ten  years  ?  You  might  as  well  talk  of 
his  discovering  a  gold-mine  in  that  famous  wood-lot. 
But  I'll  be  damned  if  Basset  wasn't  as  much  scared 
as  if  the  poor  fellow  had  been  jingling  the  gold  in  his 
pocket.  If  Jerome  Edwards  does,  through  the  Lord 
or  the  devil,  get  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  I  hope 
I  shall  be  alive  to  see  the  fun." 

"Hush,"  whispered  John  Jennings;  "he  is  be 
hind  us,  and  I  would  not  have  such  a  generous  young 
heart  as  that  think  itself  spoken  of  lightly." 

"Would  he  do  it  ?"  Colonel  Lamson  asked,  short- 
winded  and  reflective. 

"  I'll  be  damned  if  he  wouldn't !"  cried  the  lawyer. 


228 


"  By  the  Lord  Harry,  he  would  I"  cried  Squire 
Eben,  each  using  his  favorite  oath  for  confirmation 
of  his  opinion. 

Jerome,  following  in  their  tracks  with  his  uncle 
Ozias,  heard  perfectly  their  last  remarks,  and  lagged 
behind  to  hear  no  more,  though  his  heart  leaped  up 
to  second  with  fierce  affirmation  the  lawyer  and  the 
Squire. 

"  Keep  behind  them,"  he  whispered  to  Ozias  ;  "  I 
don't  want  to  listen." 

"  Think  you'd  give  it  away  if  you  had  it,  do  ye  ?" 
his  uncle  asked,  with  his  dry  chuckle. 

"I  don't  think— I  knoiv." 

"How  d'ye  know?" 

"I  few/1 

"Lord!" 

"  You  think  I  wouldn't,  do  you  ?"  asked  Jerome, 
angrily. 

"I'd  be  more  inclined  to  believe  ye  if  I  see  ye 
more  generous  with  what  ye've  got  to  give  now." 

Jerome  started,  and  stared  at  his  uncle's  face, 
which,  in  the  freezing  moonlight,  looked  harder, 
and  more  possessed  of  an  inscrutable  bitterness  'of 
wisdom.  "  What  d'ye  mean  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 
"What  on  earth  have  I  got  to  give,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?" 

Ozias  Lamb  tapped  his  head.  "  How  about  that  ?" 
he  asked.  "How  about  the  strength  you're  puttin' 
into  algebry  an'  Latin  ?  You  don't  expect  ever  to 
learn  enough  to  teach,  do  ye  ?" 

Jerome  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then  it's  jest  to  improve  your  own  mind. 
Improve  your  mind — what's  that  ?  What  good  is 
that  goin'  to  do  your  fellow-bein's  ?  I  tell  ye,  Je- 


rome,  ye  ain't  givin'  away  what  you've  got  to  give, 
an'  we  ain't  none  of  us." 

"  Maybe  you're  right/'  Jerome  said,  after  a  little. 

After  having  left  his  uncle,  he  walked  more  slowly 
still.  Soon  the  Squire  and  his  friends  were  quite 
out  of  sight.  The  moonlight  was  very  full  and  brill 
iant,  the  trees  were  crooked  in  hard  lines,  and  the 
snow-drifts  crested  with  white  lights  of  ice:  there 
was  no  softening  of  spring  in  anything,  but  the  young 
man  felt  within  him  one  of  those  flooding  stirs  of  the 
spirit  which  every  spring  faintly  symbolizes.  A  great 
passion  of  love  and  sympathy  for  the  needy  and  op 
pressed  of  his  kind,  and  an  ardent  defence  of  them, 
came  upon  Jerome  Edwards,  poor  young  shoemaker, 
going  home  with  his  sack  of  meal  over  his  shoulder. 
Like  a  bird,  which  in  the  spring  views  every  little 
straw  and  twig  as  towards  his  nest  and  purpose  of 
love,  Jerome  would  henceforth  regard  all  powers  and 
instrumentalities  that  came  in  his  way  only  in  their 
bearing  upon  his  great  end  of  life. 

On  reaching  home  that  night  he  packed  away  his 
algebra  and  his  Latin  books  on  the  shelf  in  his  room, 
and  began  a  new  study  the  next  evening. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SETH  PRESCOTT  was  the  only  practising  physician 
for  some  half-dozen  villages.  His  mud-bespattered 
sulky  and  his  smart  mare,  advancing  always  with 
desperate  flings  of  forward  hoofs — which  caused  the 
children  to  scatter — were  familiar  objects,  not  only 
in  the  cluster  of  Uphams,  but  also  in  Dale  and  Gran- 
by,  and  the  little  outlying  hamlet  of  Ford's  Hill, 
which  was  nothing  but  a  scattering  group  of  farm 
houses,  with  a  spire  in  their  midst,  and  which  came 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  Upham.  In  all  these  vil 
lages  people  were  wont  to  run  from  the  windows  to 
the  doors  when  they  saw  the  doctor's  sulky  whirl  past, 
peer  after  it,  up  or  down  the  road,  to  see  where  it 
might  stop,  and  speculate  if  this  old  soul  were  about 
to  leave  the  world,  or  that  new  soul  to  come  into  it. 

One  afternoon,  not  long  before  he  was  twenty-one, 
Jerome  Edwards  walked  some  three  miles  and  a  half 
to  Ford's  Hill  to  carry  some  shoes  to  a  woman  binder 
who  was  too  lame  to  come  for  them  herself.  Jerome 
walked  altogether  of  late  years,  for  the  white  horse 
was  dead  of  old  age:  but  it  was  well  for  him,  since 
he  was  saved  thereby  from  the  permanent  crouch  of 
the  shoe-bench. 

When,  having  left  his  shoes,  he  was  returning  down 
the  steep  street  of  the  little  settlement,  he  saw  Doc 
tor  Prescott's  sulky  ahead  of  him.  Then,  just  before 
it  reached  a  small  weather-beaten  house  on  the  right, 


281 


he  saw  a  woman  rush  out  as  if  to  stop  it,  and  a  man 
follow  after  her  and  pull  her  back  through  the 
door. 

The  sulky  was  driven  past  at  a  rapid  pace  ;  for 
the  weather  was  sharp,  and  the  doctor's  mare  stepped 
out  well  after  standing.  When  Jerome  reached  the' 
house  the  doctor  was  scarcely  within  hailing  dis 
tance  ;  but  the  woman  was  out  again,  calling  after 
him  frantically  :  "Doctor!  Doctor!  Doctor  Pres- 
cott !  Stop  !  Stop  here  !  Doctor  !" 

Jerome  sprang  forward  to  offer  his  assistance  in 
summoning  him,  but  at  that  instant  the  man  reap 
peared  again  and  clutched  the  woman  by  the  arm. 
"  Come  back,  come  back  in  the  house,  Laura/7  he 
gasped,  faintly,  and  yet  with  wild  energy. 

Jerome  saw«then  that  the  man  Avas  ghastly,  stag 
gering,  and  yellow-white,  except  for  blazing  red  spots 
on  the  cheeks,  and  that  his  great  eyes  were  bright 
with  fever.  Jerome  knew  him ;  he  was  a  young 
farmer,  Henry  Leeds  by  name,  and  not  long  married. 
Jerome  had  gone  to  school  with  the  wife,  and  called 
her  familiarly  by  name.  "What's  the  matter,  Lau 
ra?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  J'rome,"  she  half  sobbed,  "do  help  me— do 
call  the  doctor.  Henry's  awful  sick ;  I  know  he  is. 
He'd  ought  to  have  the  doctor,  but  he  won't  because 
it  costs  so  much.  Do  call  him;  I  can't  make  him 
hear." 

Jerome  opened  his  mouth  to  shout,  but  the  sick 
man  flew  at  him  with  an  awful,  piteous  cry.  "  Don't 
ye,  don't  ye,"  he  wailed  out ;  "I  tell  ye  not  to,  J'rome 
Edwards.  I  'ain't  got  any  money  to  pay  him  with." 
"But  you're  sick,  Henry,"  said  Jerome,  putting 
his  hand  on  the  man's  shaking  shoulder  to  steady 


232 


him.  "You'd  better  let  me  run  after  him — I  can 
make  him  hear  now.  It  won't  cost  much/' 

"  Don't  ye  do  it,"  almost  sobbed  the  young  farmer. 
"It  costs  us  a  dollar  every  time  he  comes  so  far,  an' 
he'll  say  right  off,  the  way  he  did  about  mother  that 
'last  time  she  was  sick — when  she  broke  her  hip — that 
he'd  take  up  a  little  piece  of  land  beforehand;  it 
would  jest  pay  his  bill.  He'll  do  that,  an'  I  tell  ye  I 
'ain't  got  'nough  land  now  to  support  me.  I  'ain't 
got  'nough  land  now,  J'rome." 

The  poor  young  wife  was  weeping  almost  like  a 
child.  "  Do  let  him  call  the  doctor,  do  let  him, 
Henry/'  she  pleaded. 

"  There's  another  thing,  J'rome,"  half  whispered 
the  young  man,  turning  his  back  on  his  wife  and  fast 
ening  mysterious  bright  eyes  on  Jerojne's — "there's 
another  thing.  Laura,  she'll  have  to  have  the  doctor 
before  long,  you  can  see  that,  an' — there'll  be  another 
mouth  to  fill,  an'  I've  been  savin'  up  a  little,  an'  it 
ain't  goin'  for  me — I  tell  ye  it  ain't  goin'  for  me, 
J'rome." 

All  the  while  poor  Henry  Leeds,  -in  spite  of  hot 
red  spots  on  his  cheeks,  was  shivering  violently,  but 
stiffly,  like  a  tree  in  a  freezing  wind.  The  doctor 
had  whirled  quite  out  of  sight  over  the  hill.  "  He's 
gone,"  wailecl  the  wife — "  he's  gone,  and  Henry  "11 
die — oh,  I  know  he'll  die  !" 

Then  Jerome,  who  had  been  standing  bewildered, 
not  knowing  whether  he  should  or  should  not  run 
and  call  after  the  doctor,  and  listening  first  to  one, 
then  to  the  other,  collected  himself.  "K"o,  he  isn't 
going  to  die,  either,"  he  said  to  the  poor  girl,  who 
was  very  young;  and  he  said  it  quite  sharply,  because 
he  so  pitied  her  in  her  innocent  helplessness,  and 


233 


would  give  her  courage  even  in  a  bitter  dose.  He 
asked  her,  furthermore,  as  brusquely  as  Doctor  Pres- 
cott  himself  could  have  done,  what  medicine  she 
had  in  the  house.  Then  he  bade  her  hasten,  if  she 
wished  to  help  and  not  hurt  her  husband,  to  the 
nearest  neighbor  and  beg  some  sweat-producing  herbs 
— thoronghwort  or  sage  or  catnip — all  of  which  he 
had  heard  were  good  for  fever. 

She  went  away,  wrapped  in  the  thick  shawl  which 
Jerome  had  found  in  a  closet,  and  himself  pinned 
over  the  wild  fair  head,  under  the  quivering  chin, 
while  he  quieted  her  with  grave  admonitions,  as  if 
he  were  her  father.  Then  he  led  poor  Henry  Leeds — 
still  crying  out  that  he  would  not  have  the  doctor — 
into  his  house  and  his  bedroom,  and  got  him  to  bed, 
though  it  was  a  hard  task. 

"I  tell  you,  Henry,"  pleaded  Jerome,  struggling 
with  him  to  loosen  his  neck-band,  ".you  shall  not 
have  the  doctor  ;  HI  doctor  you  myself." 

"You  don't  know  how  —  you  don't  know  how, 
J'rome  !  She'll  say  you  don't  know  how  ;  she'll  send 
for  him,  an'  then,  when  he's  got  all  my  land,  how  am 
I  goin'  to  get  them  a  livin'  ?" 

"I  tell  you,  Doctor  Prescott  sha'n't  darken  your 
doors,  Henry  Leeds,  if  you'll  behave  yourself,"  said 
Jerome,  stoutly ;  "  and  I  can  break  up  a  fever  as  well 
as  he  can,  if  you'll  only  let  me.  Mother  broke  up 
one  for  me,  and  I  never  forgot  it.  You  let  me  get 
your  clothes  off  and  get  you  into  bed,  Henry." 

Jerome  had  had  some  little  experience  through 
nursing  his  mother,  but,  more  than  that,  had  the 
natural  instinct  of  helpfulness,  balanced  with  good 
sense  and  judgment,  which  makes  a  physician.  More 
over,  he  worked  with  as  fiery  zeal  as  if  he  were  a  sur- 


234 


geon  in  a  battle-field.  Soon  he  had  Henry  Leeds 
in  his  feather  bed,  with  all  the  wedding  quilts  and 
blankets  of  poor  young  Laura  piled  over  him.  The 
fire  was  almost  out,,  for  the  girl  was  a  poor  house 
keeper,,  and  not  shod  by  nature  for  any  of  the  rough 
emergencies  of  life.  Jerome  had  the  fire  blazing  in 
short  space,  and  some  hot  water  and  hot  bricks  in 
readiness. 

Poor  young  Laura  Leeds  had  to  go  almost  half  a 
mile  for  her  healing  herbs,  as  the  first  neighbor  was 
away  from  home  and  no  one  came  in  answer  to  her 
knocks.  By  the  time  she  returned,  with  a  stout 
neighboring  mother  at  her  side — both  of  them  laden 
with  dried  aromatic  bouquets,  and  the  visitor,  more 
over,  clasping  a  bottle  or  two  of  household  panaceas, 
such  as  camphor  and  castor-oil — Jerome  had  the  sick 
man  steaming  in  a  circle  of  hot  bricks,  and  was  rub 
bing  him  under  the  clothes  with  saleratus  and  water. 

Jerome's  proceedings  might  not  have  commended 
themselves  to  a  school  of  physicians ;  but  he  reasoned 
from  the  principle  that  if  remedies  were  individually 
valuable,  a  combination  of  them  would  increase  in 
value  in  the  proportion  of  the  several  to  one.  Sage 
and  thoroughwort,  sarsaparilla,  pennyroyal,  and  bur 
dock — nearly  every  herb,  in  fact,  in  the  neighbor's 
collection — were  infused  into  one  black  and  eminent 
ly  flavored  tea,  into  which  he  dropped  a  little  cam 
phor,  and  even  a  modicum  of  castor -oil.  Jerome 
afterwards  wondered  at  his  own  daring  ;  but  then, 
with  a  certainty  as  absolute  as  the  rush  of  a  stung 
animal  to  a  mud  bath — as  if  by  some  instinct  of  heal 
ing  born  with  him — he  concocted  that  dark  and  bit 
ter  beverage,  and  fed  it  in  generous  doses  to  the  sick 
man.  Nobody  interfered  with  him.  The  neighbor, 


235 


though  older  than  Laura  and  the  mother  of  several 
children,  had  never  known  enough  to  hring  out  their 
measles  and  loosen  their  colds.  The  herbs  had  been 
gathered  and  stored  by  her  husband's  mother,  and 
for  many  a  year  hung  all  unvalued  in  her  garret. 
Luckily  Jerome,  through  his  old  gathering  for  the 
apothecary,  knew  them  all. 

Jerome  sent  one  of  the  neighbor's  boys  to  Upham 
Corners  to  tell  his  mother  of  his  whereabouts  ;  then 
he  remained  all  night  with  young  Henry  Leeds,  and 
by  dint  of  his  medley  of  herbs,  or  his  tireless  bathing 
and  nursing,  or  because  the  patient  had  great  elastic 
ity  of  habit,  or  because  the  fever  was  not,  after  all,  of 
a  dangerous  nature,  his  treatment  was  quite  success 
ful. 

Jerome  went  home  the  next  morning,  and  returned 
late  in  the  afternoon,  to  stay  overnight  again.  The 
day  after,  the  fever  did  not  appear,  and  Henry  Leeds 
was  on  the  fair  way  to  recovery.  A  few  weeks  later 
came  the  affair  of  the  contract  in  Robinson's  store, 
and  Jerome  grasped  a  new  purpose  from  the  two. 

The  next  day,  when  he  carried  some  finished  shoes 
to  Dale,  he  bought  a  few  old  medical  books,  the  rem 
nant  of  a  departed  doctor's  library,  which  had  been 
stowed  away  for  years  in  a  dusty  corner  of  the  great 
country  store.  This  same  store  included  in  its  stock 
such  heterogeneous  objects,  so  utterly  irrelevant  to 
one  another  and  at  such  tangents  of  connection,  that 
it  seemed  sometimes  like  a  very  mad-house  of  trade. 

It  was  of  this  store  that  the  story  was  told  for 
miles  around  how  one  day  Lawyer  Means,  having 
driven  over  with  Colonel  Lamson  from  Upham  Cor 
ners,  made  a  bet  with  him  that  he  could  not  ask  for 
anything  not  included  in  its  stock  of  trade  ;  and  the 


236 


Colonel  had  immediately  gone  in  and  asked  for  a 
skeleton  ;  for  he  thought  that  he  was  thereby  sure 
of  winning  his  bet,  and  of  putting  to  confusion  his 
friend  and  the  storekeeper.  The  latter,  however, 
who  was  not  the  Bill  Dickey  of  this  time,  but  an  un 
kempt  and  shrewd  old  man  of  an  earlier  date,  had 
conferred  with  his  own  recollection  for  a  minute,  and 
asked,  reflectively,  of  his  clerk,  "  Lemme  see,  we've 
got  a  skeleton  somewheres  about,  'ain't  we,  Eph  ?" 
And  had  finally  unearthed — not  adjacent  to  the  old 
doctor's  medical  books,  for  that  would  have  been  too 
much  method  in  madness,  but  in  some  far-removed 
nook — a  ghastly  box,  containing  a  reasonably  com 
plete  little  skeleton.  Then  was  the  laugh  all  on  Colo 
nel  Jack  Lamson,  who  had  his  bet  to  pay,  and  was 
put  to  hard  shifts  to  avoid  making  his  grewsome 
purchase,  the  article  being  offered  exceedingly  cheap 
on  account  of  its  unsalable  properties. 

"It's  been  here  a  matter  of  twenty-five  year,  ever 
sence  the  old  doctor  died.  Them  books,  an'  that, 
was  cleaned  out  of  his  office,  an'  brought  over  here," 
the  old  storekeeper  had  said.  "  Let  ye  have  it  cheap, 
Colonel;  call  it  a  shillin'." 

"  Guess  I  won't  take  it  to-day." 

"Call  it  a  sixpence." 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  suppose  I  want  a  skele 
ton  for  ?"  asked  the  Colonel,  striding  out,  while  the 
storekeeper  called  after  him,  with  such  a  relish  of 
his  own  wit  that  it  set  all  the  loafers  to  laughing 
and  made  them  remember  it : 

"  Guess  ye'd  find  out  if  ye  didn't  have  one,  Colo 
nel  ;  an'  I  guess,  sence  natur's  gin  ye  all  the  one  she's 
ever  goin'  to,  ye'll  never  have  a  chance  to  git  another 
as  cheap  as  this." 


237 


That  same  little  skeleton  was  yet  for  sale  when  Je 
rome  purchased  his  medical  books  at  the  price  of 
waste-paper,  and  might  possibly  have  been  thrown 
into  the  bargain  had  he  wished  to  study  anatomy. 

Jerome  sought  only  to  gain  an  extension  of  any  old 
wife's  knowledge  of  healing  roots  and  herbs  and  the 
treatment  of  simple  and  common  maladies.  Surgery 
he  did  not  meddle  with,  until  one  night,  about  a 
year  later,  when  Jake  Noyes,  Doctor  Prescott's  man, 
came  over  secretly  with  a  little  whimpering  dog  in 
his  arms. 

"  We  run  over  this  little  fellar,"  he  said  to  Jerome, 
when  he  had  been  summoned  to  the  door,  "an'  his 
leg's  broke,  an'  the  doctor  told  me  I'd  better  finish 
him  up  ;  guess  he's  astray ;  but "  —  Jake's  voice 
dropped  to  a  whisper — ' '  I've  heard  what  you're  up 
to,  an'  I've  brought  a  splint,  an',  if  you  say  so,  I'll 
show  you  how  to  set  a  bone." 

So  up  in  his  little  chamber,  with  his  mother  and 
Elmira  listening  curiously  below,  and  a  little  whining, 
trembling  dog  for  a  patient,  Jerome  learned  to  set  a 
bone.  His  first  surgical  case  was  nearly  a  complete 
success,  moreover,  for  the  little  dog  abode  with  him 
for  many  a  year  after  that,  and  went  nimbly  and  mer 
rily  on  his  four  legs,  with  scarcely  a  limp. 

Later  on,  Jake  Noyes,  this  time  with  Jerome  him 
self  as  illustration,  gave  him  a  lesson  in  bleeding  and 
cupping,  which  was  considered  indispensable  in  the 
ordinary  practice  of  that  day.  "  Dun'no'  what  the 
doctor  would  say,"  Jake  Noyes  told  Jerome,  "an' 
I  dun'no'  as  I  much  care,  but  I'd  jest  as  soon  ye'd 
keep  it  dark.  Rows  ain't  favorable  to  the  action  of 
the  heart,  actin'  has  too  powerful  stimulants  in  mt>st 
cases,  an'  I  had  an  uncle  on  my  mother's  side  that 


dropped  dead.  But  I  feel  as  if  the  doctor  had  ground 
the  face  of  the  poor  about  long  enough  ;  it's  about 
time  somebody  dulled  his  grindstone  a  little.  He's 
just  foreclosed  that  last  mortgage  on  John  Upham's 
place,  an'  they've  got  to  move.  Mind  ye,  J'rome,  I 
ain't  sayin'  this  to  anybody  but  you,  an'  I  wouldn't 
say  it  to  you  if  I  didn't  think  mebbe  you  could  do 
something  to  right  what  he'd  done  wrong.  If  he 
won't  do  it  himself,  somebody  ought  to  for  him.  Tell 
ye  what  'tis,  J'rome,  one  way  an'  another,  I  think 
considerable  of  the  doctor.  I've  lived  with  him  a 
good  many  years  now.  I've  got  some  books  I'll  let 
ye  take  any  time.  I  calculate  you  mean  to  do  your 
doctorin'  cheap." 

"Cheap  !"  replied  Jerome,  scornfully.  "Do  you 
think  I  would  take  any  pay  for  anything  I  could  do  ? 
Do  you  think  that's  what  I'm  after  ?" 

Jake  Noyes  nodded.  "  Didn't  s'pose  it  was,  J'rome. 
"Well,  there'll  be  lots  of  things  you  can't  meddle  with ; 
but  there's  no  reason  why  you  can't  doctor  lots  of  lit 
tle  ails — if  folks  are  willin' — an'  save  'em  money.  I'll 
learn  ye  all  I  know,  on  the  doctor's  account.  I  want 
it  to  balance  as  even  as  he  thinks  it  does." 

The  result  of  it  all  was  that  Jerome  Edwards  be 
came  a  sort  of  free  medical  adviser  to  many  who 
were  too  poor  to  pay  a  doctor's  fees,  and  had  enough 
confidence  in  him.  Some  held  strenuously  to  the 
opinion  that  "he  knew  as  much  as  if  he'd  studied 
medicine."  He  was  in  requisition  many  of  the  hours 
when  he  was  free  from  his  shoemaker's  bench;  and 
never  in  the  Uphams  was  there  a  sick  man  needing  a 
watcher  who  did  not  beg  for  Jerome  Edwards. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN"  these  latter  years  Ann  Edwards  regarded  her 
son  Jerome  with  pride  and  admiration,  and  yet  with 
a  measure  of  disapproval.  In  spite  of  her  fierce  inde 
pendence,  a  lifetime  of  poverty  and  struggle  against 
the  material  odds  of  life  had  given  a  sordid  taint  to 
her  character.  She  would  give  to  the  utmost  out  of 
her  penury,  though  more  from  pride  than  benevo 
lence  ;  but  when  it  came  to  labor  without  hire,  that 
she  did  not  understand. 

"  I  'ain't  got  anything  to  say  against  your  watchin' 
with  sick  folks,  an'  nursin'  of  'em,  if  you've  got  the 
spare  time  an7  strength,"  she  said  to  Jerome  ;  "  but  if 
you  do  doctorin'  for  nothin'  nobody  "11  think  anything 
of  it.  Folks  '11  jest  ride  a  free  horse  to  death,  an' 
talk  about  him  all  the  time  they're  doin'  of  it.  You 
might  just  as  well  be  paid  for  your  work  as  folks  that 
go  ridin'  round  in  sulkies  chargin'  a  dollar  a  visit. 
You  want  to  get  the  mortgage  paid  up." 

"  It  is  almost  paid  up  now,  you  know,  mother," 
Jerome  replied. 

"How-?"  cried  his  mother,  sharply.  "By  nip- 
pin'  an'  tuckin'  an'  pinchin',  an'  Elmira  goin'  without 
things  that  girls  of  her  age  ought  to  have." 

"I  don't  complain,  mother,"  said  Elmira,  with  a 
sweet,  bright  glance  at  her  brother,  as  she  gave  a 
nervous  jerk  of  her  slender  arm  and  drew  the  waxed 
thread  through  the  shoe  she  was  binding. 


240 


"  You'd  ought  to  complain,  if  you  don't/'  returned 
her  mother.  Then  she  added,  with  an  air  of  severe 
mystery,  "  It  might  make  a  difference  in  your  whole 
life  if  you  did  have  more ;  sometimes  it  does  with 
girls." 

Jerome  did  not  say  anything,  but  he  looked  in  a 
troubled  way  from  his  sister  to  his  mother  and  back 
again.  Elmira  blushed  hotly,  and  he  could  not  un 
derstand  why. 

It  was  very  early  in  a  spring  morning,  not  an  hour 
after  dawn,  but  they  had  eaten  breakfast  and  were 
hurrying  to  finish  closing  and  binding  a  lot  of  shoes 
for  Jerome  to  take  to  his  uncle's  for  finishing.  They 
all  worked  smartly,  and  nothing  more  was  said,  but 
Ann  Edwards  had  an  air  of  having  conclusively  es 
tablished  the  subject  rather  than  dropped  it.  Jerome 
kept  stealing  troubled  glances  at  his  sister's  pretty 
face.  Elmira  was  a  mystery  to  him,  which  was  not 
strange,  since  he  had  not  yet  learned  the  letters  of 
the  heart  of  any  girl ;  but  she  was  somewhat  of  a  mys 
tery  to  her  mother  as  well. 

Elmira  was  then  twenty-two,  but  she  was  very 
small,  and  looked  no  more  than  sixteen.  She  had 
the  dreams  and  questioning  wonder  of  extreme  youth 
in  her  face,  and  something  beyond  that  even,  which 
was  more  like  the  wide-eye  brooding  and  introspec 
tion  of  babyhood. 

As  one  looking  at  an  infant  will  speculate  as  to 
what  it  is  thinking  about,  so  Ann  often  regarded  her 
daughter  Elmira,  sitting  sewing  with  fine  nervous 
energy  which  was  her  very  own,  but  with  bright  eyes 
fixed  on  thoughts  beyond  her  ken.  "What  you 
thinkin' about,  Elmira?"  she  would  question  sharply; 
but  the  girl  would  only  start  and  color,  and  look  at 


241 


her  as  if  she  were  half  awake,  and  murmur  that  she 
did  not  know.  Very  likely  she  did  not  ;  often  one 
cannot  remember  dreams  when  suddenly  recalled  from 
them  ;  though  Elmira  had  one  dream  which  was  the 
reality  of  her  life,  and  in  which  she  lived  most  truly, 
but  which  she  would  always  have  denied,  even  to  her 
own  mother,  to  guard  its  sacredness. 

When  the  shoes  were  done  Jerome  loaded  himself 
with  them,  and,  watching  his  chance,  beckoned  his 
sister  slyly  to  follow  him  as  he  went  out.  Standing 
in  the  sweet  spring  sunlight  in  the  door-yard,  he 
questioned  her.  "What  did  mother  mean,  Elmira  ?'A 
he  said. 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied,  blushing  shyly. 

"  What  is  it  you  want,  Elmira  ?" 

"  Nothing.     I  don't  want  anything,  Jerome." 

"  Do  you  want — a  new  silk  dress  or  anything  ?" 

"  A  new  silk  dress?  No."  Elmira's  manner,  when 
fairly  aroused  and  speaking,  was  full  of  vivacity,  in 
curious  contrast  to  her  dreaming  attitude  at  other 
times. 

"  I  tell  you  what  'tis,  Elmira,"  said  Jerome,  sober 
ly.  "  I  want  you  to  have  all  you  need.  I  don't  know 
what  mother  meant,  but  I  want  you  to  have  things 
like  other  girls.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  put  any  more 
of  your  earnings  in  towards  the  mortgage.  I  can  man 
age  that  alone,  with  what  I'm  earning  now.  I  can 
pay  it  up  inside  of  two  years  now.  I  told  you  in  the 
first  of  it  you  needn't  do  anything  towards  that." 

"I  wasn't  going  to  earn  money  and  not  do  my 
part." 

"Well,  take  your  earnings  now  and  buy  things  for 
yourself.  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't.  I 
can  earn  enough  for  all  the  rest.  There's  no  need  of 

16 


242 


mother's  working  so  hard,  either.  I  can't  charge  for 
mixing  up  doses  of  herbs,  as  she  wants  me  to,  for  I 
don't  do  it  for  anybody  that  isn't  too  poor  to  pay  the 
doctor,  but  I  earn  enough  besides,  so  neither  of  you 
need  to  work  your  fingers  to  the  bone  or  go  without 
everything.  HI  give  you  some  money.  Get  yourself 
a  blue  silk  with  roses  on  it ;  seems  to  me  I  saw  one 
in  meeting  last  Sunday." 

Elmira  laughed  out  with  a  sweet  ring.  Her  black 
hair  was  tossing  in  the  spring  wind,  her  whole  face 
showed  variations  and  under  -  meanings  of  youthful 
bloom  and  brightness  in  the  spring  light. 

"'Twas  Lucina  Merritt  wore  the  blue  silk  with 
roses  on  it ;  it  rustled  against  your  knee  when  she 
passed  our  pew/' she  cried.  "  She  is  just  home  from 
her  young  ladies'  school,  and  she's  as  pretty  as  a  pict 
ure.  I  guess  you  saw  more  than  the  silk  dress,  Je 
rome  Edwards." 

With  that  Elmira  blushed,  and  dropped  her  eyes 
in  a  curious  sensitive  fashion,  as  if  she  had  spoken 
to  herself  instead  of  her  brother,  who  looked  at  her 
quite  gravely  and  coolly. 

"I  saw  nothing  but  the  silk,"  he  said,  "and  I 
thought  it  would  become  you,  Elmira." 

"I  am  too  dark  for  blue,"  replied  Elmira,  fairly 
blushing  for  her  own  blushes.  At  that  time  Elmira 
was  as  a  shy  child  to  her  own  emotions,  and  Jerome's 
were  all  sleeping.  He  had  truly  seen  nothing  but  the 
sweep  of  that  lovely  rose-strewn  silk,  and  never  even 
glanced  at  the  fair  wearer. 

"  Why  not  have  a  red  silk,  then?"  he  asked,  soberly. 

"I  can't  expect  to  have  things  like  Squire  Mer- 
ritt's  daughter,"  returned  Elmira.  "  I  don't  want  a 
new  silk  dress ;  I  am  going  to  have  a  real  pretty  one 


243 


made  out  of  mother's  wedding  silk  ;  she's  had  it  laid 
by  all  these  years,  and  she  says  I  may  have  it.  It's 
as  good  as  new.  I'm  going  over  to  Granby  this 
morning  to  get  it  cut.  When  Imogen  and  Sarah 
Lawson  came  over  last  Aveek  they  told  me  about  a 
mantua-maker  there  who  will  cut  it  beautifully  for 
a  shilling." 

'"'Mother  don't  want  to  give  up  her  wedding- 
dress." 

"  Women  always  have  their  wedding-dresses  made 
over  for  their  daughters/'  Elmira  said,  gravely. 

"  What  color  is  it  ?" 

"A  real  pretty  green,  with  a  little  sheeny  figure 
in  it  ;  and  I  am  going  to  have  a  new  ribbon  on  my 
bonnet." 

"It's  'most  ten  miles  to  Granby  ;  hadn't  I  better 
get  a  team  and  take  you  over  ?"  said  Jerome. 

"No  ;  it's  a  beautiful  morning,  and  it  will  do  me 
good  to  walk.  I  shall  go  to  Imogen  and  Sarah's  and 
rest,  and  have  a  bite  of  something  before  I  come  back 
too.  I  may  not  be  home  very  early.  You'd  better 
run  along,  Jerome,  and  I've  got  to  get  ready." 

Jerome  gave  his  burden  of  shoes  a  hitch  of  final 
adjustment.  "Well,"  said  he,  "I'd  just  as  lief  take 
you  over,  if  you  say  so." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  taken  over.  I  want  to  take 
myself  over,"  laughed  Elmira,  and  ran  into  the  house 
before  a  flurry  of  wind. 

That  morning  the  wind  was  quite  high,  and  though 
it  was  soft  and  warm,  was  hard  to  breast  on  a  ten- 
mile  stretch.  Elrnira's  strength  was  mostly  of  nerve, 
and  she  had  little  staying  power  of  muscle.  Before 
she  had  walked  three  miles  on  the  road  to  Granby 
she  felt  as  if  she  were  wading  deeper  and  deeper 


244 


against  a  mightier  current  of  spring  ;  the  scent  of 
the  young  blossoms  suffocated  her  with  sweet  heavi 
ness  ;  the  birds'  songs  rang  wearily  in  her  ears.  She 
sat  down  on  the  stone  wall  to  rest  a  few  moments, 
panting  softly.  She  laid  her  parcel  of  silk  on  the 
wall  beside  her  and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap. 
The  day  was  so  warm  she  had  put  on,  for  the  first 
time  that  spring,  her  pink  muslin  gown,  which  had 
served  her  for  a  matter  of  eight  seasons,  and  showed 
in  stripes  of  brighter  color  around  the  skirt  where 
the  tucks  had  been  let  out  to  accommodate  her 
growth.  Her  pink  skirts  fluttered  around  her  as 
she  sat  there,  smiling  straight  ahead  out  of  the  pink 
scoop  of  a  sunbonnet  like  her  dress,  with  a  curious 
sweet  directness,  as  if  she  saw  some  one  whom  she 
loved — as,  indeed,  she  did.  Elmira,  full  of  the  in 
nocent  selfishness  of  youth,  saw  such  a  fair  vision  of 
her  own  self  clad  in  her  mother's  wedding  silk,  with 
loving  and  approving  eyes  upon  her,  that  she  could 
but  smile. 

Elmira  rested  a  few  minutes,  then  gathered  up 
her  parcel  and  started  again  on  her  way.  She  reach 
ed  the  place  in  the  road  where  the  brook  willows 
border  it  on  either  side,  and  on  the  east  side  the 
brook,  which  is  a  river  in  earliest  spring,  flows  with 
broken  gurgles  over  a  stony  bed,  and  slackened  her 
pace,  thinking  she  would  walk  leisurely  there,  for 
the  young  willows  screened  the  sun  like  green  veils 
of  gossamer,  and  the  wind  did  not  press  her  back  so 
hard,  and  then  she  heard  the  trot,  trot  of  a  horse's 
feet  behind  her. 

She  did  not  look  around,  but  walked  more  closely 
to  the  side  of  the  road  and  the  splendid  east  file  of 
willows.  The  trot,  trot  of  the  horse's  feet  came 


245 


nearer  and  nearer,  and  finally  paused  alongside  of 
her ;  then  a  man's  voice,,  half  timid,  half  gayly  dar 
ing,  called,  "  Good-day,  Miss  Elmira  Edwards  !" 

With  that  Elmira  gave  a  great  start,  though  not 
wholly  of  surprise  ;  for  the  imagination  of  a  maid 
can,  at  the  stimulus  of  a  horse's  feet,  encompass 
nearly  all  realities  within  her  dreams.  Then  she 
looked  up,  and  Doctor  Prescott's  son  Lawrence  was 
bending  over  from  his  saddle  and  smiling  into  her 
pink  face  in  her  pink  sunbonnet. 

"Good-day,"  she  returned,  softly,  and  courtesied 
with  a  dip  of  her  pink  skirts  into  a  white  foam  of 
little  way-side  weedy  flowers,  and  then  held  her  pink 
sun-bonnet  slanted  downward,  and  would  not  look 
again  into  the  young  man's  eager  face. 

"  It  is  a  full  year  since  I  have  seen  you,  and  not  a 
glimpse  of  your  face  did  I  get  this  time,  and  yet  I 
knew,  the  minute  I  came  in  sight  of  you,  who  it  was," 
said  he,  gayly ;  still,  there  was  a  loving  and  wistful 
intonation  in  his  voice. 

"  Small  compliment  to  me,"  returned  Elmira,  with 
a  pretty  spirit,  though  she  kept  her  pink  bonnet 
slanted,  "to  know  me  by  a  gown  and  bonnet  I  have 
had  eight  years." 

' '  But  'twas  your  gown  and  bonnet,"  said  the  young 
man,  and.  Elmira  trembled  and  took  an  uneven  step, 
though  she  strove  to  walk  in  a  dignified  manner  be 
side  Lawrence  Prescott  on  his  bay  mare.  The  mare 
was  a  spirited  creature,  and  he  had  hard  work  to  rein 
her  into  a  walk.  "Let  me  take  your  bundle,"  he 
said. 

"It  is  not  heavy,"  said  she,  but  yielded  it  to  him. 

Lawrence  Prescott  was  small  and  slight,  but  held 
himself  in  the  saddle  with  a  stately  air.  He  was 


246 


physically  like  his  father,  but  his  mother's  smile 
parted  his  fine-cut  lips,  and  her  expression  was  in  his 
blue  eyes. 

Upham  people  had  not  seen  much  of  Lawrence 
since  he  was  a  child,  for  he  had  been  away  at  a  pre 
paratory  school  before  entering  college,  and  many  of 
his  vacations  had  not  been  spent  at  home.  Now  he 
was  come  home  to  study  medicine  with  his  father 
and  prepare  to  follow  in  his  footsteps  of  life.  The 
general  opinion  was  that  he  would  never  be  as  smart. 
Many  there  were,  even  of  those  who  had  come  in 
sore  measure  under  Doctor  Seth  Prescott's  autocratic 
thumb,  who  held  in  dismay  the  prospect  of  the  trans 
ference  of  his  sway  to  his  son. 

"  Guess  you'll  see  how  this  town  will  go  down 
when  the  old  doctor's  gone  and  the  young  one's  here 
in  his  place/'  they  said.  It  is  the  people  who  make 
tyranny  possible. 

1 '  How  far  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Lawrence,  of 
Elmira  flitting  along  beside  his  dancing  mare. 

"Oh,  a  little  way,"  said  she,  evasively. 

"  How  far  ?"  There  was  something  of  his  father's 
insistence  in  Lawrence's  voice. 

"  To  Granby,"  replied  Elmira  then,  and  tried  to 
speak  on  unconcernedly.  She  was  ashamed  to  let 
him  know  how  far  she  had  planned  to  walk  because 
of  her  poverty. 

"  Granby  !"  cried  Lawrence,  with  a  whistle  of  as 
tonishment  ;  ' '  why,  that  is  seven  miles  farther !  You 
are  not  going  to  walk  to  Granby  and  back  to  day  ?" 

"  I  like  to  walk,"  said  Elmira,  timidly. 

""Why,  but  it  is  a  warm  day,  and  you  are  breath 
ing  short  now."  Lawrence  pulled  the  mare  up  with 
a  sharp  whoa.  "Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he 


247 


said.  "You  sit  down  here  on  that  stone  and  rest, 
and  Fll  ride  back  home  and  put  the  mare  into  the 
chaise,  and  Fll  drive  you  over  there." 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I'd  rather  walk,"  said  Elmira, 
all  touched  to  bliss  by  his  solicitude,  but  resolved  in 
her  pride  of  poor  maidenhood  that  she  would  not 
profit  by  it. 

"  Let  him  go  back  and  get  the  chaise,  and  have  all 
the  town  talking  because  Lawrence  Prescott  caught 
me  walking  ten  miles  to  get  a  dress  cut  ?  I  guess  I 
won't !"  she  told  herself. 

"You  are  just  the  same  as  ever  ;  you  would  never 
let  anybody  do  anything  for  you  unless  you  paid 
them  for  it,"  said  Lawrence,  half  angrily.  Then  he 
added,  bending  low  towards  her,  "  But  you  would  pay 
me,  measure  pressed  down  and  running  over,  by  go 
ing  with  me — you  know  that,  Elmira." 

Elmira  lost  her  step  again,  and  her  voice  trembled 
a  little,  though  she  strove  to  speak  sharply.  "  I  like 
to  walk,"  said  she. 

"And  I  tell  you  you're  all  tired  out  now,"  said 
Lawrence.  "  I  can  see  you  pant  for  breath.  Don't 
you  know,  I  am  going  to  be  a  doctor,  like  father  ? 
Let  me  go  back,  and  you  wait  here." 

Elmira  shook  her  pink  bonnet  decidedly. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Lawrence,  "I  tell  you  what 
you  must  do."  He  slipped  off  the  mare  as  lie  spoke. 
"  Now,"  he  said,  and  there  was  real  authority  in  his 
voice,  "you've  got  to  ride.  It's  a  man's  saddle,  and 
you  won't  sit  so  very  secure,  but  I'll  lead  the  mare, 
and  you'll  be  safe  enough." 

Elmira  shrank  back.     "  Oh,  I  can't,"  said  she. 
"  Yes,  you  can.   Whoa,  Betty.   She's  gentle  enough, 
for  all  she's  nervous,  and  she's  used  to  a  lady's  riding 


248 


her.  The  daughter  of  the  man  who  sold  her  to  fa 
ther  used  to  scour  the  country  on  her.  Come,  put 
your  foot  in  my  hand  and  jump  up  !" 

"  What  would  people  say  ?" 

"  There  isn't  a  house  for  a  good  mile,  and  Til  let 
you  get  down  before  you  reach  it  if  you  want  to  ;  but 
I  don't  see  what  harm  it  would  be  if  the  whole  town 
saw  us.  Come."  Lawrence  smiled  with  gentle  im 
portunity  at  her,  and  held  his  hand,  and  Elmira 
could  not  help  putting  her  little  foot  in  it  and  spring 
ing  to  the  bay  mare's  back  in  obedience  to  his  bidding. 

Elmira,  fluttering  like  a  pink  flower  on  the  back 
of  the  bay  mare,  who  really  ambled  along  gently 
enough  with  Lawrence's  hand  on  her  bridle,  jour 
neyed  for  the  next  mile  as  one  in  a  happy  dream. 
She  was  actually  incredulous  of  the  reality  of  it  all. 
She  was  half  afraid  that  the  jolt  of  the  bay  mare 
would  wake  her  from  slumber ;  she  kept  her  eyes 
closed  in  the  recesses  of  her  sun-bonnet.  Here  was 
Lawrence  Prescott,  about  whom  she  had  dreamed 
ever  since  she  was  a  child,  come  home,  grown  up  and 
grand,  grander  than  any  young  man  in  town,  grand 
as  a  prince,  and  not  forgetting  her,  knowing  her  at 
a  glance,  even  when  her  face  was  hidden,  and  making 
her  ride  lest  she  get  over-tired.  She  had  scarcely 
seen  him,  to  speak  to  him,  since  she  was  sixteen. 
Doctor  Prescott  had  kept  his  son  very  close  when  he 
was  home  on  his  vacations,  and  not  allowed  him  to 
mingle  much  with  the  village  young  people.  That 
summer  when  Elmira  was  sixteen  there  had  been 
company  in  the  doctor's  house,  and  she  had  been  sum 
moned  to  assist  in  the  extra  work.  Somehow  time 
had  hung  idly  on  young  Lawrence's  hands  that  sum 
mer  ;  the  guests  in  the  house  were  staid  elderly  folk 


249 


and  no  company  for  him.  There  was  also  much  sick 
ness  in  the  village,  and  his  father  was  not  as  watchful 
as  usual.  It  happened  that  Lawrence,,  for  lack  of 
other  amusement,  would  often  saunter  about  the  do 
mestic  byways  of  the  house,  and  had  a  hand  in  vari 
ous  tasks  which  brought  him  into  working  partnership 
with  pretty,  young  Elmira — such  as  stemming  cur 
rants  or  shelling  pease  and  beans.  On  several  occa 
sions,  also,  he  and  Elmira  had  roamed  the  pastures 
in  search  of  blackberries  for  tea.  Once  when  they 
were  out  together,  and  had  been  picking  a  long  time 
from  one  fat  bush,  neither  saying  a  word  —  for  a 
strange  silence  which  abashed  them  both,  though 
they  knew  not  why,  had  come  between  them — the 
girl,  moved  thereto  by  some  quick  impulse  of  maiden 
ly  concealment  and  shame  which  she  did  not  herself 
understand,  made  some  light  and  trivial  remark  about 
the  size  of  the  fruit,  which  would  well  have  acquit 
her  had  not  her  little  voice  broken  with  utter  self- 
betrayal  of  innocent  love  and  passion.  And  then 
young  Lawrence,  with  a  quick  motion,  as  of  fire  which 
leaps  to  flame  after  a  long  smoulder,  flung  an  arm 
about  her,  with  a  sigh  of  "  Oh,  Elmira  I"  and  kissed 
her  on  her  mouth. 

Then  they  had  quickly  stood  apart,  as  if  afraid  of 
each  other,  and  finished  picking  their  berries  and 
gone  home  soberly,  with  scarce  a  word.  But  all  the 
time  it  was  as  if  invisible  cords,  which  no  stretching 
could  thin  or  break,  bound  them  together,  and  when 
they  entered  the  house  Doctor  Prescott/s  wife,  Lydia, 
looked  at  them  both  with  a  gentle,  yet  keen  and  trou 
bled  air.  That  night,  when  Elmira  went  home,  she 
said  to  her  softly  that  since  the  baking  was  all  done 
for  the  week,  and  the  guests  were  to  leave  in  three 


250 


days,  and  the  weather  was  so  warm,  and  she  looked 
tired,  she  need  not  come  again.  But  she  drew  her 
to  her  gently,  as  she  spoke,  with  one  great  mother- 
arm,  pressed  the  little  dark  head  of  the  girl  against 
her  breast,  and  kissed  her.  Lydia  Prescott  was  a 
large  woman,  shaped  like  a  queen,  but  she  was  softer 
in  her  ways  than  Elmira's  own  mother. 

When  the  girl  had  gone  she  turned  to  her  son,  who 
had  seen  her  caress,  and  blushed  and  thrilled  as  if 
he  had  given  it  himself.  "You  must  remember  you 
are  very  young,  Lawrence,"  said  she  ;  "you  must  re 
member  that  a  man  has  no  right  to  follow  his  mind 
until  he  has  proved  it,  and  you  must  remember  your 
father." 

And  Lawrence  had  blushed  and  paled  a  little,  and 
said,  "Yes,  mother,"  soberly,  and  gone  away  up 
stairs  to  his  own  chamber,  where  he  had  some  wake 
ful  hours,  and  when  he  fell  asleep  often  started  awake 
again,  with  his  heart  throbbing  in  his  side  with  that 
same  joyful  pain  as  when  he  kissed  pretty  Elmira. 

As  for  Elmira,  she  did  not  sleep  at  all,  and  came 
down  in  the  morning  with  young  eyes  like  stars  of 
love,  which  no  dawn  could  dim.  For  six  years  the 
memory  of  that  kiss,  which  had  never  been  repeated, 
for  Elmira  had  never  seen  Lawrence  alone  since,  had 
been  to  her  her  sweetest  honey  savor  of  life.  Lucky 
it  was  for  her  that  young  Lawrence,  if  the  taste  had 
not  been  in  his  heart  as  in  hers  during  his  busy  life 
in  other  scenes,  had  still  the  memory  of  its  sweetness 
left. 

When  they  had  passed  through  the  avenue  of 
brook  willows,  and  the  brook  itself  had  wound  away 
through  fields  spotted  as  with  emeralds  and  gold, 
and  then  had  passed  some  pasture-lands  where  red 


251 


cattle  were  grazing,  and  then  came  to  a  little  stretch 
of  pines,  beyond  which  the  white  walls  of  a  house 
glimmered,  Lawrence  held  up  his  arms  to  Elmira. 
"It  isn't  necessary/'  said  he,  "but  if  you  don't  want 
to  ride  my  horse,  with  me  leading  him,  past  the 
houses  there,  why,  I'll  take  you  down,  as  I  said." 

And  with  that  Elmira  slipped  down,  and  Lawrence 
had  kissed  her  again,  and  she  had  not  chidden  him, 
and  was  following  after  him,  trembling  and  quite 
pale,  except  for  the  reflecti6"n  of  her  pink  sunbonnet, 
while  he  rode  slowly  ahead. 

When  the  cluster  of  houses  were  well  passed  he 
stopped  and  lifted  her  again  to  the  mare's  saddle,  and 
the  old  shyness  of  the  blackberry-field  was  over  both 
of  them  again  as  they  went  on  their  way.  In  truth, 
Lawrence  was  sorely  bewildered  betwixt  his  impulse 
of  young  love  and  .innocent  conviction  that  his  honor 
ought  to  be  pledged  with  the  kiss,  since  they  were 
boy  and  girl  no  longer,  and  his  memory  of  his  father 
and  what  he  might  decree  for  him.  As  for  Elmira, 
she  was  much  troubled  in  mind  lest  she  ought  to  re 
buke  the  young  man  for  his  boldness,  but  could  not 
bring  herself  so  to  do,  not  being  certain  that  she  had 
not  kissed  him  back  and  been  as  guilty  as  he. 

The  young  couple  went  so  all  the  way  to  Granby, 
striving  now  and  then,  with  casual  talk,  each  to  blind 
the  other  as  to  perturbation  of  spirit.  Lawrence 
lifted  her  from  the  saddle  when  Granby  village  came 
in  sight,  but  he  did  not  kiss  her  again.  Indeed,  El 
mira  kept  her  head  well  down  that  he  might  not ; 
but  he  asked  if  he  might  call  and  see  her,  and  she 
said  yes,  and  the  next  Wednesday  evening  was  men 
tioned,  that  day  being  Thursday.  Then  she  fluttered 
up  the  Granby  street  to  Imogen  and  Sarah  Lawson's 


252 


with  her  mother's  wedding  silk,  and  Lawrence  Pres- 
cott  rode  back  to  Upham.  Much  he  would  have 
liked  to  linger  and  take  Elmira  back  as  she  had 
come,  or  else  drive  over  for  her  later  with  a  chaise, 
but  she  had  refused. 

"  Imogen  and  Sarah  can  have  one  of  their  neigh 
bors'  horses  and  wagons  whenever  they  like/'  said 
she,  "and  they  will  carry  me  home  if  I  want  them 
to." 

A  strange  maidenly  shyness  of  her  own  bliss  and 
happiness,  which  she  longed  to  repeat,  was  upon  her. 
She  had  not  told  Lawrence  what  her  errand  in  Gran- 
by  was.  The  truth  was  that  she  had  planned  her 
new  gown  because  Lawrence  had  come  home,  and 
she  was  anxious  to  wear  it  to  meeting  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  admire  her  in  it.  Should  she  betray 
this  artless  preening  and  trimming  of  her  maiden 
plumage,  which,  though,  like  a  bird's,  an  open  secret 
of  nature,  must  nevertheless  be  kept  sacred  by  an 
impulse  of  modest  concealment  and  deceit  towards 
the  one  for  whose  sake  it  all  was  ? 


CHAPTER   XX 

THEY  who  have  sensitive  palates  for  all  small, 
sweet,,  but  secondary  savors  of  life  that  come  in  their 
way,  and  no  imaginative  desires  for  others,  are  con 
tented  in  spirit.  When  also  small  worries  and  af 
fairs,  even  those  of  their  neighbors  in  lieu  of  their 
own,  serve  them  as  well  as  large  ones  to  keep  their 
minds  to  a  healthy  temper  of  excitement  and  zest  of 
life,  there  is  no  need  to  pity  them  for  any  lack  of  full 
experience. 

Imogen  and  Sarah  Lawson,  the  two  elderly  single 
sisters  whom  Elmira  Edwards  sought  in  Granby  that 
day,  were  in  a  way  happier  than  she,  all  flushed  with 
her  hope  of  young  love,  for  they  held  in  certain  ten 
ure  that  which  they  had.  They  were  sitting  stitch 
ing  on  fine  linen  shirts  in  the  little  kitchen  of  the 
cottage  house  in  which  they  had  been  born.  There 
was  a  broad  slant  of  sunlight  athwart  the  floor,  a 
great  cat  purred  in  a  rocking-chair,  the  clock  ticked, 
a  pot  of  greens  boiled  over  the  fire.  They  seemed 
to  look  out  of  a  little  secure  home  radiance  of  peace 
at  Elmira  when  she  entered,  all  glowing  and  tremu 
lous  with  sweet  excitement  which  she  strove  hard  to 
conceal. 

No  romances  had  there  been  in  the  lives  of  the 
Lawson  sisters,  and  no  repining  over  the  lack  of 
them.  They  had,  in  their  youth,  speculated  as  to 
what  husbands  the  Lord  might  provide  for  them,  and 


254 


looked  about  for  them  with  furtive  alertness.  When 
He  provided  none,  they  stopped  speculating,  and  went 
on  as  sharply  askant  as  hens  at  any  smaller  good 
pecks  life  might  have  for  them. 

The  Lawson  sisters  had  always  been  considered 
dressy.  They  owned  their  house  and  garden,  also 
several  acres  which  yielded  fair  crops  of  hay,  and 
some  good  woodland.  They  earned  considerable 
money  making  fine  shirts  for  a  little  Jew  peddler 
who  let  out  work  in  several  neighboring  villages,  and 
were  enabled  to  devote  the  greater  part  of  that  to 
their  wardrobes.  They  were  said  to  always  buy 
everything  of  the  best — the  finest  muslins,  the  stiff- 
est  silks,  the  richest  ribbons.  Each  of  the  sisters 
possessed  several  silk  gowns,  a  fine  cashmere  shawl, 
and  a  satin  pelisse  ;  each  had  two  beautiful  bonnets, 
one  for  winter  and  one  for  summer,  and  each  pos 
sessed  the  value  of  her  fine  apparel  to  the  uttermost, 
and  realized  from  it  a  petty,  perhaps,  but  no  less 
comforting,  illumination  of  spirit.  Many  of  the 
lights  of  happiness  of  this  world  are  feeble  and  even 
ignoble,  but  one  must  see  to  live,  and  even  a  penny 
dip  is  exalted  if  it  save  one  from  the  darkness  of 
despair.  It  is  not  given  to  every  one  to  light  his 
way  with  a  sun,  or  a  full  moon,  or  even  a  star. 

The  two  Lawson  sisters,  Imogen  and  Sarah,  greeted 
Elmira  with  a  shrill  feminine  clamor  of  hospitality, 
as  was  their  wont,  examined  her  mother's  wedding 
silk  with  critical  eyes  and  fingers,  and  pronounced 
it  well  worth  making  over.  "It's  best  to  buy  a  good 
thing  while  you're  about  it,  if  it  does  cost  a  little 
more,"  said  Imogen. 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  assented  her  sister.  "Now  I 
shouldn't  be  a  mite  surprised  if  Ann  paid  as  much 


255 


as  one  an'  sixpence  for  this  silk  when  'twas  new ;  but 
look  at  it  now — there  ain't  a  break  in  it.  It's  as 
good  as  your  blue-and-yellow  changeable  silk,  Imo 
gen." 

"  Dun'no'  but  'tis/'  said  Imogen,  reflectively. 

Sarah  went  with  Elmira  to  the  mantua-maker's, 
who  lived  in  the  next  house,  to  get  the  dress  cut, 
while  Imogen  prepared  the  dinner.  In  the  after 
noon  the  two  sisters  gave  Elmira  an  hour's  work  on 
her  new  gown,  one  stitching  up  the  body,  the  other 
sewing  breadths  ;  then  they  borrowed  the  neighbor's 
horse  and  wagon  and  drove  her  home  to  Upham. 

Elmira  was  glad  to  ride ;  she  thought  that  she 
should  die  of  shame  should  she  walk  home  and  meet 
Lawrence  Prescott  again. 

Imogen  drove.  She  was  the  older,  but  the  larger 
and  stronger  of  the  two.  Elmira  sat  in  the  rear 
gloom  of  the  covered  wagon  with  Sarah,  holding  her 
silk  gown  spread  carefully  over  her  knees.  She 
thought  of  nothing  all  the  way  but  the  possibility  of 
meeting  Lawrence.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  if 
she  did  she  would  sit  far  back  in  the  wagon  and  not 
thrust  her  head  forward  at  all.  ' l  If  he  acts  as  if  he 
thought  I  might  be  in  here,  and  looks  real  hard,  then 
it  will  be  time  for  me  to  do  my  part,"  she  thought. 

Whenever  she  saw  a  man  or  a  team  in  the  dis 
tance,  her  heart  beat  violently,  but  it  was  never 
Lawrence.  All  her  sweet  panic  of  expectation  would 
luive  been  quieted  had  she  known  that  he  was  at  that 
very  time  seated  in  Miss  Camilla  Merritt's  arbor, 
drinking  tea  and  eating  fruit  cake  with  her  and  pret 
ty  Lucina. 

"Didn't  you  think  Elmira  seemed  dreadful  kind 
of  flighty  to-day — still  as  a  mouse  one  minute  and 


256 


carry  in'  on  the  next  ?"  Sarah  asked  Imogen,  as  they 
were  driving  home  in  the  evening.  They  had  waited, 
staying  to  tea  and  letting  the  horse  rest,  until  the  full 
moon  arose. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Imogen,  "but  Ann  was  just 
like  her  at  her  age.  That  silk  is  well  enough,  but  it 
ain't  no  such  quality  as  my  blue  an7  yellow  change- 
ble  one/' 

"  Well,  I  dun'no'  as  it  is.  I  dun'no'  as  it's  as  good 
as  my  figured  brown  one." 

It  was  a  beautiful  spring  night ;  the  moon  was  one 
for  lovers  to  light  their  fondest  thoughts  and  fancies 
into  reality.  The  two  old  sisters  driving  home  met 
and  passed  many  young  couples  on  the  country  road. 
"If  they  don't  look  out  I  shall  run  over  some  of 
them  fellars  an'  girls,"  said  Imogen.  "  I  don't  b'lieve 
Elmira  has  ever  had  anybody  waitin'  on  her,  do  you, 
Sarah  ?" 

"  Never  heard  of  anybody,"  replied  Sarah.  "  Well, 
anyhow,  she's  goin'  to  have  a  real  handsome  dress 
out  of  that  silk." 

"Yes,  she  is,"  said  Imogen,  and  just  then  from 
before  the  great  plunging  feet  of  her  horse  a  pair  of 
young  lovers  sprang  with  a  laugh,  having  seen  noth 
ing  of  team  nor  the  old  sisters  nor  yet  of  the  little 
side  lamps  of  happiness  they  bore,  in  the  great  daz 
zling  circle  of  their  own. 

Elmira  finished  her  dress  Saturday.  She  had  sat 
up  nearly  two  nights  stitching  on  it,  but  nobody 
would  have  dreamed  it  when  she  came  down  out  of 
her  chamber  Sunday  morning  all  ready  for  meeting. 
Her  mother  was  sitting  in  the  parlor  beside  a  win 
dow,  with  her  Bible  on  her  knees.  The  window  was 
opened  wide,  and  the  room  was  full  of  the  reverber- 


257 


ations  of  the  meeting  bell.  Always  on  a  pleasant 
Sunday  morning  in  summer-time  Ann  Edwards  sat 
with  her  Bible  at  the  open  window  and  listened  to 
the  meeting  bell. 

As  Elmira  entered,  the  bell  tolled  again,  and  the 
long  wavering  and  dying  of  its  sweet  multiple  tones 
commenced  afresh.  Elmira  stood  before  her  mother, 
and  turned  slowly  about  that  she  might  view  her  on 
all  sides  in  her  new  attire. 

Elmira  whirled  slowly,  in  a  whispering,  shimmer 
ing  circle  of  pale  green  silk  ;  a  little  wrought-lace 
cape,  which  also  had  been  part  of  her  mother's  bridal 
array,  covered  her  bare  neck,  for  the  dress  was  cut 
low.  She  had  bought  a  new  ribbon  of  green  and 
white,  like  the  striped  grass  of  the  gardens,  for  her 
bonnet,  and  tied  it  in  a  crisp  and  dainty  bow  under 
her  chin.  This  same  bonnet,  of  a  fine  Florence  braid, 
had  served  her  for  best  for  nearly  ten  years.  She 
had  worn  a  bright  ribbon  on  it  in  the  winter  season 
and  a  delicate-hued  one  in  summer-time,  but  it  was 
always  the  same  bonnet. 

Elmira  had  not  had  a  new  summer  ribbon  for  three 
years,  and  now,  in  addition,  she  had  purchased  some 
rosebuds,  and  arranged  them  in  little  clusters  in  a 
frilling  of  lace  inside  the  brim.  Her  pretty  face 
looked  out  of  this  little  millinery  halo  with  an  inde 
scribably  mild  and  innocent  radiance.  One  caught 
one's  self  looking  past  her  fixed  shining  eyes  for  the 
brightness  which  they  saw  and  reflected. 

"Well,"  said  her  mother,  "I  guess  you  look  as 
well  as  some  other  folks,  if  you  didn't  lay  out  quite 
so  much  money.  I  guess  folks  will  have  to  give  in 
you  do." 

Ann  Edwards's  little  nervous  face  wore  rather  an 


expression  of  antagonistic  triumph  than  a  smile  of 
motherly  approval ;  so  hostile  had  been  all  her  con 
ditions  of  life  that  she  never  laid  down  her  weapons,, 
and  went  with  spear  in  rest,  as  it  were,  even  into  her 
few  by-paths  of  delight. 

She  pulled  Elmira's  skirts  here  and  there  to  be 
sure  they  hung  evenly  ;  she  bade  her  stand  close,  and 
picked  out  the  ribbon  bow  under  her  chin.  "Now 
you'd  better  run  along/'  said  she,  "or  the  bell  will 
stop  tollin'." 

She  watched  the  girl,  in  her  own  old  bridal  array, 
step  down  the  front  path,  with  more  happiness  than 
she  had  known  since  her  husband's  disappearance. 
Elmira  had  told  her  mother  that  Lawrence  Prescott 
was  coming  to  see  her,  and  she  had  immediately 
leaped  to  furthest  conclusions.  Ann  Edwards  had 
not  a  doubt  %that  Lawrence  and  Elmira  would  be 
married.  She  had,  when  it  was  once  awakened,  that 
highest  order  of  ambition  which  ignores  even  the 
existence  of  obstacles. 

As  Elmira's  green  skirts  fluttered  out  of  sight  be 
hind  some  lilac-bushes  pluming  to  the  wind  with 
purple  blossoms  Jerome  came  in,  and  his  mother 
turned  to  him.  "I  guess  Elmira  will  do  about  as 
well  as  any  of  the  girls,"  said  she,  with  her  tone  of 
blissful  yet  half-vindictive  triumph. 

Jerome  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  "Why  shouldn't 
she  ?"  said  he. 

Immediately  Mrs.  Edwards  put  forth  her  feminine 
craft  like  an  involuntary  tentacle  of  protection  for 
her  excess  of  imagination,  against  the  masculine  prac 
ticality  of  her  son.  Neither  she  nor  Elmira  had  said 
anything  about  Lawrence  Prescott  to  him ;  both 
knew  how  he  would  regard  the  matter.  It  seemed 


259 


to  Mrs.  Edwards  that  she  had  fairly  heard  him  say  : 
"  Marry  Doctor  Prescott's  son  !  You  know  better, 
mother."  Now  she,  with  her  Bible  on  her  knees, 
shunted  rapidly  the  whole  truth  behind  a  half-truth. 

"I  guess  she'll  cut  full  as  good  a  figure  in  my  old 
silk  and  her  old  bonnet  with  a  new  ribbon  on  it  as 
any  of  the  girls,"  said  she.  Then  she  added,  with 
a  skilful  swerve  from  whole  truths  and  half-truths 
alike:  "You'd  better  hurry,  Jerome,  or  you'll  be 
late  to  meetin'.  Elmira  is  out  of  sight,  an'  the  bell's 
'most  stopped  tollin'." 

"  I  am  not  going  this  morning,"  said  Jerome. 

"  Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"John  Upham  sent  his  oldest  boy  over  here  this 
morning  to  tell  me  the  baby's  sick.  I  am  going  over 
there  and  see  if  I  can  do  anything." 

"I  should  think  John  Upham  had  better  send  for 
Doctor  Prescott  instead  of  taking  you  away  from 
meeting." 

"You  know  he  won't,  mother.  I  believe  he'd  let 
the  baby  die  before  he  would.  I've  got  to  go  there 
and  do  the  best  I  can." 

"  "Well,  all  Kve  got  to  say  is,  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself  if  he'd  let  his  own  baby  die  before  he'd 
call  in  the  doctor,  I  don't  care  how  bad  he's  treated 
him.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  John  Upham  was  some 
to  blame  about  that ;  there's  always  two  sides  to  a 
story." 

Jerome  made  no  reply.  He  would  have  been  puz 
zled  several  times  lately,  had  he  considered  it  of  suf 
ficient  moment,  by  his  mother's  change  of  attitude 
towards  Doctor  Prescott.  He  went  to  the  china- 
closet  beside  the  Chimney.  On  the  upper  shelves 
was  his  mothers  best  china  tea-set ;  on  the  lower  a 


260 


little  array  of  cloudy  bottles ;  some  small  bunches 
of  herbs,  all  nicely  labelled,  were  packed  in  the  wide 
space  at  the  bottom. 

His  mother's  antagonistic  eyes  followed  him.  "I 
dun'no'  as  I  can  have  them  herbs  in  my  china-closet 
much  longer,"  said  she;  "they're  scentin'  up  the 
dishes  too  much.  If  I  want  to  have  a  little  company 
to  tea,  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  the  tea  all  flavored  with 
"spearmint  an'  catnip." 

"  Well,  I'll  move  them  when  I  come  home,"  said 
Jerome,  with  his  usual  concession,  which  always  ag 
gravated  his  mother  more  than  open  rebellion,  al 
though  she  admired  him  for  it.  "I  only  brought 
those  little  bundles  down  from  the  barn  loft  to  have 
them  handy.  I'll  rig  up  a  cupboard  for  them  in  the 
woodshed." 

Jerome  tucked  a  bottle  or  two  in  his  pocket,  and 
rolled  up  a  little  bouquet  of  herbs  in  paper. 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  time  for  you  to  go 
and  see  that  young  one  after  meeting,"  said  his  moth 
er,  varying  her  point  of  attack  when  she  met  with  no 
resistance. 

"I'll  go  to  meeting  this  afternoon,"  replied  Je 
rome,  in  the  tone  with  which  he  might  have  pacified 
a  fretful  child.  There  was  no  self -justification  in  it. 

"  I  s'pose  Doctor  Prescott  will  be  mad  if  he  hears 
of  your  goin'  there,  an'  I  dun'no'  but  I  should  be  in 
his  place,"  she  said,  as  Jerome  went  out.  Then,  as 
he  did  not  answer,  she  added,  calling  out  shrilly  : 

"I  don't  see  why  John  Upham  can't  call  in  Law 
rence,  if  he  wants  a  doctor ;  he's  begun  to  study 
with  his  father ;  he  can't  have  nothin'  against  him. 
I  guess  he  knows  as  much  as  you  do." 

"Mother's  queer,"  Jerome  told  himself  as  he  went 


261 


down  the  road,  and  then  dismissed  the  matter  from 
his  mind,  for  the  consideration  of  the  Upham  baby 
and  the  probable  nature  of  its  ailment,  upon  which, 
however,  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  dwell  too  long. 
Early  in  his  amateur  practice  Jake  Noyes  had  incul 
cated  one  precept  in  his  mind,  upon  which  he  always 
acted. 

"There's  one  thing  I  want  to  tell  ye,  Jerome,  and 
I  want  ye  to  remember  it/'  Jake  Noyes  had  said, 
"and  that  is,  a  doctor  had  ought  to  be  like  jurymen 
— he'd  ought  to  be  sworn  in  to  be  unprejudiced  when 
he  goes  to  see  a  patient,  just  as  a  juryman  is  when 
he  goes  to  court.  If  you  don't  know  what  ails  'em, 
don't  ye  go  to  speculating  as  to  what  'tis  an'  what 
ye'll  do,  on  the  way  there.  Ten  chances  to  one,  if 
you're  workin'  up  measles  in  your  mind  an'  what 
you'll  do  for  them,  you'll  find  it's  mumps,  an'  then 
you've  got  to  cure  your  own  measles  afore  you  cure 
their  mumps ;  an'  if  you're  hard-bitted  an'  can't  stop 
yourself  easy  when  you're  once  headed,  you  may  give 
saffron  tea  to  bring  out  the  measles  whether  or  no. 
Think  of  the  prospect,  or  the  gals,  or  your  soul's 
salvation,  or  anythin'  but  the  sick  folks,  before  you 
get  to  'em  the  first  time  and  don't  know  what  ails 
'em." 

In  girls  Jerome  had,  so  far,  no  interest ;  in  his 
soul's  salvation  he  had  little  active  concern.  The  re 
vivals  which  were  occasionally  upstirred  in  the  com 
munity  by  prayer,  and  the  besom  of  threatened  de 
struction,  passed  over  him  like  a  hot  wind,  for  which 
he  had  no  power  of  sensation,  sometimes  to  his  own 
wonder.  Probably  the  cause  lay  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  too  thoroughly,  without  knowing  it,  rooted  and 
grounded  in  his  own  creed  to  be  emotionally  moved 


262 


by  religious  appeals.  Jerome  had,  as  most  have,  con 
sciously  or  not,  and  vitally  or  not,  his  own  creed. 
He  believed  simply  in  the  unquestionable  justice  of 
the  intent  of  God,  the  thwarting  struggles  against  it 
by  free  man,  and  that  his  duty  to  apply  his  small 
strength  towards  furthering  what  he  could,  if  no 
more  than  an  atom,  of  the  eternal  will  lay  plain  be 
fore  him. 

Jerome,  who  had  not  yet  been  disturbed  by  love  of 
woman,  who  fretted  not  over  the  salvation  of  his  own 
soul,  had  therefore,  in  order  to  follow  his  mentor's 
advice,  to  turn  his  attention  to  the  prospect.  His 
way  led  in  an  opposite  direction  from  the  church,  and 
he  was  late,  so  met  none  of  the  worshippers  bound  to 
meeting.  He  was  rather  glad  of  that.  After  he  left 
the  village  the  road  lay  through  the  woods,  and  now 
and  then  between  blueberry-fields  or  open  spaces  of 
meadow,  with  green  water-lines  and  shadows  purple 
with  violets  in  the  hollows.  Red  cows  in  the  mead 
ows  stared  at  him  as  he  passed,  with  their  mysteri 
ous  abstraction  from  all  reflection,  then  grazed  again, 
moving  in  one  direction  from  the  sun.  The  blueberry- 
patches  spread  a  pale  green  glimmer  of  blossoms,  like 
a  sheen  of  satin  in  a  high  light ;  young  ferns  curled 
beside  the  road  like  a  baby's  fingers  grasping  at  life  ; 
the  trees,  which  were  late  in  leafing,  also  reached  out 
towards  the  sun  little  rosy  clasping  fingers  whereby 
to  hold  fast  to  the  motherhood  of  the  spring.  The 
air  was  full  of  that  odor  so  delicate  that  it  is  scarcely 
an  odor  at  all,  much  less  a  fragance,  which  certain 
so-called  scentless  plants  give  out,  and  then  only  to 
wide  recognition  when  they  bloom  in  multitudes — it 
was  only  the  simplest  evidence  of  life  itself.  Through 
that  came  now  and  then  great  whiffs  of  perfume  from 


263 


some  unseen  flowering  bush,  calling,  as  it  were,  from 
its  obscurity,  with  halloos  of  fragrance,  to  the  care 
less  passer-by,  to  search  it  out. 

Jerome  passed  along,  seeing  and  comprehending 
all  the  sweet  pageant  of  the  spring  morning,  yet  as 
an  observer  merely.  Nature  had  as  yet  not  estab 
lished  her  fullest  relationship  to  himself,  and  he 
knew  not  that  her  secret  glory  of  meaning  was  like 
his  own. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

JOHN"  UPHAM'S  farm,  or  rather  what  had  been  John 
Upham's  farm  (Doctor  Prescott  owned  it  now),  began 
at  the  end  of  a  long  stretch  of  woods,  with  some  fine 
fields  sloping  greenly  towards  the  west.  Farther  on, 
behind  a  row  of  feathery  elm-trees,  stood  the  old 
Upham  homestead. 

John  Upham  did  not  live  there  now  ;  his  mortgage 
had  been  foreclosed  nearly  a  year  before,  about  the 
time  the  last  baby  was  born.  People  said  that  the 
mother  had  been  cruelly  hurried  out  of  her  own 
house  into  the  little  shanty,  which  her  husband  was 
forced  to  rent  for  a  shelter.  Poor  John  Upham  had 
lost  all  his  ancestral  acres  to  Doctor  Prescott  now, 
and  did  not  fairly  know  himself  how  it  had  happened. 
There  had  been  heavy  bills  for  medicines  and  attend 
ance,  and  the  doctor  had  loaned  him  money  often 
times,  with  his  land  as  security,  for  other  debts.  A 
little  innocent  saying  of  one  of  his  six  children  to 
another  was  much  repeated  to  the  village,  "  Father 
bought  you  of  Doctor  Prescott,  and  paid  for  you 
with  all  the  clover-field  he  had  left,  and  you  must  be 
very  good,  for  you  came  very  dear." 

It  was  known  positively  that  John  Upham  had 
gone  to  Doctor  Prescott's  the  day  after  he  had  left 
his  old  home,  and  told  him  to  his  face  what  he 
thought  of  him.  "  You  have  planned  and  manoeuvred 
to  get  all  my  property  into  your  hands  from  the  very 


265 


first  of  it/' said  John  Upham.  "You've  drained  me 
dry,  an"  now  I  hope  you're  satisfied." 

te  You  had  full  value  in  return/'  replied  the  doctor, 
calmly. 

"I  haven't  had  time.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  if 
you  had  given  me  a  little  time,  I  could  have  got 
myself  out,  and  you  know  it.  You've  screwed  me 
down  to  the  very  second." 

"I  cannot  afford  to  give  my  debtors  longer  time 
than  that  regulated  by  the  laws  of  the  common 
wealth." 

Then  a  sudden  strange  gleam  had  come  into  John 
Upham's  blue  eyes.  "Thank  the  Lord,"  he  cried 
out,  in  a  trembling  fervor  of  wrath — "  thank  the 
Lord,  He  gives  all  the  time  there  is  to  His  debtors, 
an'  no  commonwealth  on  the  earth  can  make  laws 
agin  it."  He  had  actually  then  raised  a  great  fist  and 
shaken  it  before  the  doctor's  face.  "  Now,  don't  you 
ever  darse  to  darken  my  doors  again,  Doctor  Seth 
Prescott !"  he  had  cried  out.  "  If  my  wife  or  my 
children  are  sick,  I'll  let  them  lay  and  die  before  I'll 
have  you  in  the  house  !"  So  saying,  John  Upham 
had  stridden  forth  out  of  the  doctors  yard,  where  he 
had  held  the  conversation  with  him,  with  Jake  Noyes 
and  two  other  men  covertly  listening. 

After  that  Jake  Noyes  had  given  surreptitious  ad 
vice,  with  sly  shoving  of  medicine-vials  into  John 
Upham's  or  his  wife's  hands  when  the  children  were 
ailing,  and  lately  Jerome  had  taken  his  place. 

"  Guess  you  had  better  go  there  instead  of  me 
when  the  young  ones  are  out  of  sorts,"  Jake  Noyes 
had  told  Jerome.  Then  he  had  added,  with  a  crafty 
twist  and  wink:  "When  ye  can  quarrel  with  your 
own  bread  an'  butter  with  a  cat's-paw  might  as  well 


266 


do  it,  especially  when  you're  gettin'  along  in  years. 
You  'ain't  got  anything  to  lose  if  you  do  set  the 
doctor  again  ye,  and  I  have." 

The  house  in  which  the  Uphams  had  taken  shelter 
was  in  sight  of  the  old  homestead,  some  rods  farther 
on,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  It  stood  in  a 
sandy  waste  of  weeds  on  the  border  of  an  old  gravel- 
pit — an  ancient  cottage,  with  a  wretched  crouch  of 
humility  in  its  very  roof.  It  had  been  covered  with 
a  feeble  coat  of  red  paint  years  ago,  and  cloudy  lines 
of  it  still  survived  the  wash  of  old  rains  and  the  beat 
of  old  sunbeams. 

Behind  it  on  the  north  and  west  rose  the  sand-hill, 
dripping  with  loose  gravel  as  with  water,  hollowed 
out  at  its  base  until  its  crest,  bristling  with  coarse 
herbage,  magnified  against  the  sky,  projected  far  out 
over  the  cottage  roof.  The  sun  was  reflected  from 
the  sand  in  a  great  hollow  of  arid  light.  Jerome, 
nearing  it,  felt  as  if  he  were  approaching  an  oven. 
The  cottage  door  was  shut,  as  were  all  the  windows. 
However,  he  heard  plainly  the  shrill  wail  of  the  sick 
baby. 

John  Upham  opened  the  door.  "Oh,  it's  you, 
Jerome  !"  said  he.  "  Good-day." 

"Good -day,"  returned  Jerome.  "How  is  the 
baby  ?" 

"  Well,  he  seems  kind  of  ailin'.  Laury  has  been 
up  with  him  all  night.  Thought  maybe  you  might 
give  him  something.  Come  in,  won't  ye  ?" 

There  were  only  two  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  of 
the  cottage— one  was  the  kitchen,  the  other  the  bed 
room  where  John  Upham  and  his  wife  slept  with  the 
three  youngest  children. 

Jerome  followed  Upham  across  the  kitchen  to  the 


26? 


bedroom  beyond.  The  kitchen  was  littered  with  all 
John  Upham's  poor  household  goods,  prostrate  and 
unwashed,  degraded  even  from  their  one  dignity  of 
use.  One  of  the  kitchen  windows  opened  towards 
the  sand-hill ;  the  room  was  full  of  its  garish  glare 
of  reflected  sunlight,  and  the  revelations  were  pitless. 
Laura  Upham,  once  a  model  housekeeper,  had  lost 
all  ambition  and  domestic  pride,  now  she  had  such  a 
poor  house  to  keep  and  so  many  children  to  tend. 

Upham  muttered  an  apology  as  Jerome  picked  his 
way  across  the  room. 

"Laury  has  been  up  all  night  with  the  baby,  an7 
she  hasn't  had  any  time  to  redd  up  the  room,"  he 
said.  "The  children  have  been  in  here  all  the 
mornin',  too,  an'  they've  stirred  things  up  some. 
I've  just  sent  'em  out  to  pick  flowers  to  keep  'em 
quiet." 

As  he  spoke  he  gathered  up  awkwardly,  with  a 
curious  over -motion  of  his  broad  shoulders,  as  if 
he  would  conceal  the  action,  various  articles  in  his 
path.  When  he  opened  the  door  into  the  bedroom 
he  crammed  them  behind  it  with  a  quick,  shifty 
motion. 

The  kitchen  had  been  repulsive,  but  the  bedroom 
fairly  shocked  with  the  very  indelicacy  of  untidiness. 
Jerome  felt  an  actual  modesty  about  entering  this 
room,  in  which  so  many  disclosures  of  the  closest 
secrets  of  the  flesh  were  made.  The  very  dust  and 
discolorations  of  the  poor  furnishings,  the  confined 
air,  made  one  turn  one's  face  aside  as  from  too  coarse 
a  betrayal  of  personal  reserve.  The  naked  indecency 
of  domestic  life  seemed  to  display  and  vaunt  itself, 
sparing  none  of  its  homely  and  ungraceful  details,  to 
the  young  man  on  the  threshold  of  the  room. 


268 


"  Laury  'ain't  had  a  chance  to  redd  up  this,  either/' 
poor  John  Upham  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  gathered 
up  with  a  furtive  swoop  some  linen  from  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right !"  Jerome  whispered  back, 
and  entered  boldly,  shutting  as  it  were  all  the  wretch 
ed  disclosures  of  the  room  out  of  his  consciousness, 
and  all  effort  to  do  was  needless  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Upham's  face. 

Laura  Upham's  great  hollow  eyes,  filled  with  an 
utter  passiveness  of  despair,  stared  up  at  him  out  of 
a  sallow  gloom  of  face.  She  had  been  pretty  once, 
and  she  was  not  an  old  woman  now,  but  her  beauty 
was  all  gone.  Her  slender  shoulders  rounded  them 
selves  over  the  little  creature  swathed  in  soiled  flan 
nel  on  her  lap.  Just  then  it  was  quiet ;  but  it  began 
wailing  again,  distorting  all  its  miserable  little  face 
into  a  wide  mouth  of  feeble  clamor  as  Jerome  drew 
near. 

Mrs.  Upham  looked  down  at  it  hopelessly.  She 
did  not  try  to  hush  it.  "It's  cried  this  way  all 
night,"  she  said,  in  a  monotonous  tone.  "  It's  go-in* 
to  die." 

"  Now,  Laury,  you  know  it  ain't  any  sicker  than  it 
was  before,"  John  said,  with  a  kind  of  timid  concili 
ation  ;  but  she  turned  upon  him  with  a  fierce  gleam 
lighting  her  dull  eyes  to  life. 

"  You  needn't  talk  to  me,"  said  she—"  you  needn't 
talk  to  me,  John  Upham,  when  you  won't  have  the 
doctor  when  it's  your  own  flesh  an'  blood  that's  dyin'. 
I  don't  care  what  he's  done.  I  don't  care  if  he  has 
taken  the  roof  from  over  our  heads.  My  child  is 
worth  more  than  anything  else.  He'd  come  if  you 
asked  him,  he  couldn't  refuse — you  know  he  couldn't, 
John  Upham  !" 


269 


John  Upham's  face  was  white ;  his  forehead  and 
his  chin  got  a  curious  hardness  of  outline.  "  He 
won't  have  a  chance/"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 

"  Let  your  own  flesh  and  blood  die,  then  V  cried  his 
wife ;  but  the  fierceness  was  all  gone  from  her  voice ; 
she  had  no  power  of  sustained  wrath,  so  spent  was 
she.  She  gave  a  tearless  wail  that  united  with  the 
child's  in  her  lap  in  a  pitiful  chord  of  woe. 

' '  Now,  Laury,  you  know  J'rome  gave  Minnie  some- 
thin'  that  helped  her,  and  she  seemed  every  mite  as 
sick  as  the  baby,"  her  husband  said,  in  a  softer  voice. 
But  she  turned  her  hopeless  eyes  again  upon  the 
little,  squalid,  quivering  thing  in  her  lap,  and  paid  no 
more  heed  to  him.  She  let  Jerome  examine  the 
child,  with  a  strange  apathy.  There  was  no  hope, 
and  consequently  no  power  of  effort,  left  in  her. 

When  Jerome  brought  some  medicine  in  a  spoon, 
she  assisted  him  to  feed  the  child  with  it,  but  me 
chanically,  and  as  if  she  had  no  interest.  Her  sharp 
right  elbow  shone  like  a  knob  of  ivory  through  a 
great  rent  in  her  sleeve ;  her  dress  was  unfastened, 
and  there  was  a  gleam  of  white  flesh  through  the 
opening ;  she  neither  knew  nor  cared.  There  was 
no  consciousness  of  self,  no  pride  and  no  shame  for 
self,  in  her ;  she  had  ceased  to  live  in  the  fullest 
sense  ;  she  was  nothing  but  the  concentration  of  one 
emotion  of  despairing  motherhood. 

She  heard  Jerome  and  her  husband  moving  about 
in  the  next  room,  she  heard  the  crackling  of  fire  in 
the  stove,  the  clinking  din  of  dishes,  the  scrape  of  a 
broom,  not  realizing  in  the  least  what  the  sounds 
meant.  She  heard  with  her  mind  no  sound  of  earth 
but  the  wail  of  the  sick  baby  in  her  lap. 

Jerome  Edwards  could  tidy  a  house  as  well  as  a 


270 


woman,  and  John  Upliam  followed  his  directions 
with  clumsy  zeal.  When  the  kitchen  was  set  to 
rights  Mrs.  Uphani  went  in  there,  as  she  was  bidden, 
with  the  baby,  and  sat  down  in  a  rocking-chair  by 
the  open  window  towards  the  road,  through  which 
came  a  soft  green  light  from  some  opposite  trees,  and 
a  breath  of  apple-blossoms. 

"  We've  got  the  room  all  redd  up,  Laury,"  John 
Upham  said,  pitifully,  stooping  over  her  and  looking 
into  her  face.  She  nodded  vaguely,  looking  at  the 
baby,  who  had  stopped  crying. 

Jerome  dropped  some  more  medicine,  and  she  took 
the  spoon  and  fed  it  to  the  baby.  "I  think  it  will 
go  to  sleep  now,"  said  Jerome.  Mrs.  Upham  looked 
up  at  him  and  almost  smiled.  Hope  was  waking 
within  her.  "  I  think  it  is  nothing  but  a  little  cold 
and  feverishness,  Mrs.  Upham,"  Jerome  added.  He 
had  a  great  pitiful  imagination  for  this  unknown 
woe  of  maternity,  which  possibly  gave  him  as  great 
a  power  of  sympathy  as  actual  knowledge. 

' '  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Jerome,  an7  I  hope  I 
shall  be  able  to  do  somethin'  to  pay  you  some  day," 
John  Upham  said,  huskily,  when  they  were  in  the 
bedroom  putting  that  also  in  order. 

"  I  don't  want  any  pay  for  what  I  give,"  Jerome 
returned. 

When  Jerome  started  for  home,  Mrs.  Upham  and 
the  baby  were  both  asleep  in  the  clean  bedroom. 
Eetracing  his  steps  along  the  pleasant  road,  he  was 
keenly  happy,  with  perhaps  the  true  happiness  of  his 
life,  to  which  he  would  always  turn  at  last  from  all 
others,  and  which  would  survive  the  death  and  loss 
of  all  others. 

He  pictured  John  Upham's  house  as  he  found  it 


271 


and  as  he  left  it  with  purest  self-gratulation.  He 
had  not  gone  far  before  he  heard  a  clamor  of  childish 
voices  ;  there  were  two,  but  they  sounded  like  a  troop. 
John  Upham's  twin  girls  broke  through  the  wayside 
bushes  like  little  wild  things.  Their  hands  were  full 
of  withering  flowers.  He  called  them,  and  bade 
them  be  very  still  when  they  went  home,  so  as  not  to 
waken  their  mother  and  the  baby,  and  they  hung 
their  heads  with  bashful  assent.  They  were  pretty 
children  in  spite  of  their  soiled  frocks,  with  their 
little,  pink,  moist  faces  and  curling  crops  of  yellow 
hair. 

"If  you  keep  still  and  don't  wake  them  up,  I  will 
bring  you  both  some  peppermints  when  I  come  to 
morrow/'  said  Jerome.  He  had  nearly  reached  the 
village  when  he  met  the  two  eldest  Upham  children. 
They  were  boys,  the  elder  twelve,  the  younger  eight, 
sturdy  little  fellows,  advancing  with  a  swinging  trot, 
one  behind  the  other,  both  chewing  spruce -gum. 
They  had  been  in  the  woods,  on  their  way  home,  for 
a  supply.  Jerome  stopped  them,  and  repeated  the 
charge  he  had  given  to  the  little  girls,  then  kept  on. 
The  bell  was  ringing  for  afternoon  meeting — in  fact, 
it  was  almost  done.  Jerome  walked  faster,  for  he  in 
tended  to  go.  He  drew  near  the  little  white-steepled 
meeting-house  standing  in  its  small  curve  of  green 
sward,  with  the  row  of  white  posts  at  the  side,  to 
which  were  tied  the  farmers'  great  plough -horses 
harnessed  to  covered  wagons  and  dusty  chaises,  and 
then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  bright,  like  a 
moving  flower-bush,  in  the  road  ahead.  Squire  Eben 
Merritt,  his  wife,  his  sister  Miss  Camilla,  and  his 
daughter  Lucina,  were  all  on  their  way  to  afternoon 
meeting. 


272 


The  Squire  was  with  them  that  day,  leaving  he 
roically  his  trout-pools  and  his  fishing-fields  ;  for  was 
it  not  his  pretty  Lucina's  second  Sunday  only  at 
home,  and  was  he  not  as  eager  to  be  with  her  as 
any  lover  ?  Squire  Eben  had  gained  perhaps  twenty 
pounds  of  flesh  to  his  great  frame  and  a  slight  over 
cast  of  gray  to  his  golden  beard  ;  otherwise  he  had 
not  changed  in  Jerome's  eyes  since  he  was  a  boy. 
The  Squire's  wife  Abigail,  like  many  a  small,  dark 
woman  who  has  never  shown  in  her  looks  the  true 
heyday  of  youth,  had  apparently  not  aged  nor  al 
tered  at  all.  Little  and  keenly  pleasant,  like  some 
insignificant  but  brightly  flavored  fruit,  set  about 
with  crisp  silk  flounced  to  her  trim  waist,  holding 
her  elbows  elegantly  aslant  under  her  embroidered 
silk  shawl,  her  small  head  gracefully  alert  in  her 
bright-ribboned  bonnet,  she  stepped  beside  her  great 
husband,  and  then  came  Lucina  with  Miss  Camilla. 

Miss  Camilla  glided  along  drooping  slenderly  in 
black  lace  and  lilac  silk,  with  a  great  wrought-lace 
veil  flowing  like  a  bride's  over  her  head,  and  shad 
ing  with  a  black  tracery  of  leaves  and  flowers  her  fair 
faded  face ;  but  Jerome  saw  her  no  more  than  he 
would  have  seen  a  shadow  beside  Lucina. 

If  Lucina's  parents  had  changed  little,  she  had 
changed  much,  with  the  wonderful  change  of  a  hu 
man  spring,  and  this  time  Jerome  saw  her  as  well 
as  her  gown.  She  wore  that  same  silken  gown  of  a 
pale-blue  color,  spangled  with  roses,  and  the  skirts 
were  so  wide  and  trained  over  a  hoop  and  starched 
petticoats  that  they  swung  and  tilted  like  a  great 
double  flower,  and  hit  on  this  side  and  that  with  a 
quick  musical  slur.  Over  Lucina's  shoulders,  far 
below  her  waist,  fell  her  wonderful  fair  hair,  in  curls, 


273 


and  every  curl  might  well  have  proved  a  twining 
finger  of  love.  Lucina  wore  a  bonnet  of  fine  straw, 
trimmed  simply  enough  with  a  white  ribbon,  but 
over  her  face  hung  a  white  veil  of  rich  lace,  and 
through  it  her  pink  cheeks  and  lips  and  great  blue 
eyes  and  lines  of  golden  hair  shone  and  bloomed  and 
dazzled  like  a  rose  through  a  frosted  window. 

Lucina  Merritt  was  a  rare  beauty,  and  she  knew  it, 
from  her  looking-glass  as  well  as  the  eyes  of  others, 
and  dealt  with  herself  meekly  wherewithal,  and  prayed 
innocently  that  she  might  consider  more  the  embel 
lishment  of  her  heart  and  her  mind  than  her  person, 
and  not  to  be  too  well  pleased  at  the  admiring  looks 
of  those  whom  she  met.  Indeed,  it  was  to  this  end 
that  she  wore  the  white  veil  over  her  face,  though 
not  one  of  her  maiden  mates  would  believe  that. 
She  fancied  that  it  somewhat  dimmed  her  beauty, 
and  that  folk  were  less  given  to  staring  at  her,  not 
realizing  that  it  added  to  her  graces  that  subtlest 
one  of  suggestion,  and  that  folk  but  stared  the  harder 
to  make  sure  whether  they  saw  or  imagined  such 
charms. 

Jerome  Edwards  saw  this  beautiful  Lucina  com 
ing,  and  it  was  suddenly  as  if  he  entered  a  new  at 
mosphere.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  started  as 
if  he  had  gotten  a  shock,  and  his  heart  beat  hard. 

Squire  Merritt  made  as  if  he  would  greet  him  in 
his  usual  hearty  fashion,  but  remembering  the  day, 
and  hearing,  too,  the  first  strains  of  the  opening 
hymn  from  the  meeting-house,  for  the  bell  had 
stopped  tolling,  he  gave  him  only  a  friendly  nod  as 
he  passed  on  with  his  wife.  Miss  Camilla  inclined 
her  head  with  soft  graciousness  ;  but  Jerome  looked 
at  none  of  them  except  Lucina.  She  did  not  remem- 

18 


274 


ber  him ;  she  glanced  slightly  at  his  face,  and  then 
her  long  fair  lashes  swept  again  the  soft  bloom  of  her 
cheeks,  and  her  silken  skirts  fairly  touched  him  as 
she  passed.  Jerome  stood  still  after  they  had  all  en 
tered  the  meeting-house;  the  long  drone  of  the 
hymn  sounded  very  loud  in  his  ears. 

He  made  a  motion  towards  the  meeting-house, 
hesitated,  made  another,  then  turned  decidedly  to 
the  road.  It  seemed  suddenly  to  him  that  his  clothes 
must  be  soiled  and  dusty  after  his  work  in  John 
Upham's  house,  that  his  hair  could  not  be  smooth, 
that  he  did  not  look  well  enough  to  go  to  meeting. 
So  he  went  home,  yielding  for  the  first  time,  without 
knowing  that  he  did  so,  to  that  decorative  impulse 
which  comes  to  men  and  birds  alike  when  they  would 
woo  their  mates. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  next  morning  Jerome  went  early  to  his  uncle 
Ozias  Lamb  for  some  finished  shoes,  which  he  was 
to  take  to  Dale.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  when 
he  entered  the  shop,  he  had  an  impulse  to  avert  his 
eyes  and  not  meet  his  uncle's  fully.  Ozias  had  grown 
old  rapidly  of  late.  He  sat,  with  his  usual  stiff 
crouch,  on  his  bench  and  hammered  away  at  a  shoe- 
heel  on  his  lapstone.  His  hair  and  beard  were  white 
and  shaggy,  his  blue  eyes  peered  sharply,  as  from  a 
very  ambush  of  old  age,  at  Jerome  loading  himself 
with  the  finished  shoes. 

After  the  usual  half-grunt  of  greeting,  which  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  dissyllabic  note  of  salutation 
between  two  animals,  Ozias  was  silent  until  Jerome 
was  going  out. 

"  Ain't  ye  well  this  mornin'  ?"  he  asked  then. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jerome,  "Fm  well  enough." 

"When  a  man's  smart,"  said  Ozias  Lamb,  " and  has 
got  money  in  his  pocket,  and  don't  want  folks  to 
know  it,  he  don't  keep  feelin'  of  it  to  see  if  it's  safe. 
He  acts  as  if  he  hadn't  got  any  money,  or  any  pocket, 
neither.  I  s'pose  that's  what  you're  tryin'  to  do." 

"Don't  know  what  you  mean,"  returned  Jerome, 
coloring. 

"  Oh,  nothin'.     Go  along,"  said  his  uncle. 

But  he  spoke  again  before  Jerome  was  out  of  hear 
ing.  "  There  ain't  any  music  better  than  a  squeak, 


276 


in  the  grind  you  an'  me  have  got  to  make  out  of 
life/'  said  he,  "an'  don't  you  go  to  thinkin'  there  is. 
If  you  ever  think  you  hear  it,  it's  only  in  your  own 
ears,  an'  you  might  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  it." 

"  I  made  up  my  mind  to  it  as  long  ago  as  I  can 
remember,"  Jerome  answered  back,  yet  scarcely  with 
bitterness,  for  the  very  music  which  his  uncle  denied 
was  too  loud  in  his  ears  for  him  to  disbelieve  it. 

When  Jerome  was  returning  from  Dale,  an  hour 
later,  his  back  bent  beneath  great  sheaves  of  newly 
cut  shoes,  like  a  harvester's  with  wheat,  he  heard  a 
hollow  echo  of  hoofs  in  the  road  ahead,  then  present 
ly  a  cloud  of  dust  arose  like  smoke,  and  out  of  it 
came  two  riders  :  Lawrence  Prescott,  on  a  fine  black 
horse — which  his  father  used  seldom  for  driving,  he 
was  so  unsuited  for  standing  patiently  at  the  doors 
of  affliction,  yet  kept  through  a  latent  fondness  for 
good  horse  -  flesh — and  Lucina  Merritt,  on  his  pretty 
bay  mare.  Lucina  galloped  past  at  Lawrence's  side, 
with  an  eddying  puff  of  blue  riding-skirt  and  a  toss 
of  yellow  curls  and  blue  plumes.  Jerome  stood 
back  a  little  to  give  them  space,  and  the  dust  settled 
slowly  over  him  after  they  were  by.  Then  he  went 
on  his  way,  with  his  heart  beating  hard,  yet  with  no 
feeling  of  jealousy  against  Lawrence  Prescott.  He 
even  thought  that  it  would  be  a  good  match.  Still, 
he  was  curiously  disturbed,  not  by  the  reflection  that 
he  was  laden  with  sheaves  of  leather — he  would  have 
been  more  ashamed  had  he  been  seen  idling  on  a 
work-day — but  because  he  feared  he  looked  so  untidy 
with  the  dust  of  the  road  on  his  shoes.  She  might 
have  noticed  his  clothes,  although  she  had  galloped 
by  so  fast. 

The  first  thing  Jerome  did,  when  he  reached  home, 


277 


was  to  brush  and  blacken  his  shoes,  though  there  was 
no  chance  of  Lucina's  seeing  them.  He  felt  as  if 
he  ought  not  to  think  of  her  when  he  had  on  dusty 
shoes. 

The  greater  part  of  the  next  day  Jerome  passed,  as 
usual,  soling  shoes  in  Ozias  Lamb's  shop.  When  he 
came  home  to  supper,  he  noticed  something  unusual 
about  his  mother  and  sister.  They  had  the  appear 
ance  of  being  strung  tightly  with  repressed  excite 
ment,  like  some  delicate  musical  instruments.  To 
look  at  or  to  speak  to  them  was  to  produce  in  them 
sensitive  vibrations  which  seemed  out  of  proportion 
to  the  cause. 

Jerome  asked  no  questions.  These  disturbances 
in  the  feminine  current  always  produced  a  corre 
sponding  stiffness  of  calm  in  his  masculine  one,  as  if 
by  an  instinct  to  maintain  the  equilibrium  of  danger 
ous  forces  for  the  safety  of  the  household. 

Elmira  and  her  mother  kept  looking  at  each  other 
and  at  him,  pulses  starting  up  in  their  delicate 
cheeks,  flushes  coming  and  going,  motioning  each 
other  with  furtive  gestures  to  speak,  then  counter 
manding  the  order  with  sharp  negatory  shakes  of  the 
head. 

At  last  Mrs.  Edwards  called  back  Jerome  as  he 
was  going  to  his  chamber,  books  under  arm  and 
lighted  candle  in  hand. 

"Look  here,"  said  she;  "I  want  to  show  you  some 
thing." 

Jerome  turned.  Elmira  was  extending  towards 
him  a  nicely  folded  letter,  with  a  little  green  seal 
on  it. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Jerome. 

"  Read  it,"  said  his  mother.     Jerome  took  it,  un- 


278 


folded  it,  and  read,  Elmira  and  his  mother  watching 
him.  Elmira  was  quite  pale.  Mrs.  Edwards's  mouth 
was  set  as  if  against  anticipated  opposition,  her  ner 
vously  gleaming  eyes  were  fierce  with  ready  argument. 
Jerome  knit  his  brows  over  the  letter,  then  he  folded 
it  nicely  and  gave  it  back  to  Elmira. 

"  You  see  what  it  is  ?"  said  his  mother. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  replied  Jerome,  hesitatingly.  He 
looked  confused  before  her,  for  one  of  the  few  times 
of  his  life. 

"An  invitation  for  you  an7  Elmira  to  Squire  Mer- 
ritt's —  to  a  party;  it's  Lucina's  birthday,"  said  his 
mother,  and  she  fairly  smacked  her  lips,  as  if  the 
words  were  sweet. 

Elmira  looked  at  her  brother  breathlessly.  No 
body  knew  how  eager  she  was  to  go ;  it  was  the  first 
party  worthy  of  a  name  to  which  she  had  been  bid 
den  in  her  whole  life.  She  and  her  mother  had  been 
speculating,  ever  since  the  invitation  had  arrived, 
upon  the  possibility  of  Jerome's  refusing  to  accept  it. 

''Nobody  can  tell  what  he'll  do/'  Sirs.  Edwards 
had  said.  "He's  just  as  likely  to  take  a  notion  not 
to  go  as  to  go." 

"I -can't  go  if  he  doesn't,"  said  Elmira. 

"  Why  can't  you,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

Elmira  shrank  timidly.  "I  never  went  into 
Squire  Merritt's  house  in  my  life,"  said  she. 

"I  guess  there  ain't  anything  there  to  bite  you," 
said  her  mother.  "  I'm  goin'  to  say  all  I  can  to  have 
your  brother  go ;  but  if  he  won't,  you  can  put  on 
your  new  dress  an'  go  without  him."  However,  Mrs. 
Edwards  privately  resolved  to  use  as  an  argument  to 
Jerome,  in  case  he  refused  to  attend  the  party,  the 
fact  that  his  sister  Avould  not  go  without  him. 


279 


She  used  it  now.  Mrs.  Edwards's  military  tactics 
were  those  of  direct  onslaught,  and  no  saving  of 
powder.  "Elmira's  afraid  to  go  unless  you  do/' 
said  she.  "You'll  be  keepin'  her  home,  an'  she  ain't 
had  a  chance  to  go  to  many  parties,  poor  child  I" 

Jerome  met  Elmira's  beseeching  eyes  and  frowned 
aside,  blushing  like  a  girl.  "Well,  I  don't  know," 
said  he;  "Til  see." 

That  was  the  provincial  form  of  masculine  con 
cession  to  feminine  importunity.  Mrs.  Edwards 
nodded  to  Elmira  when  Jerome  had  shut  the  door. 
"  He'll  go,"  said  she. 

Elmira  smiled  and  quivered  with  half-fearful  de 
light.  Lawrence  Prescott  was  coming  to  see  her  the 
next  day,  and  the  day  after  that  she  would  be  sure 
to  meet  him  again  at  Squire  Merritt's.  She  trembled 
before  her  own  happiness,  as  before  an  angel  whose 
wings  cast  shadows  of  the  dread  of  delight. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed  now,"  said  her  mother, 
with  a  meaning  look  ;  "you  want  to  look  bright  to 
morrow,  and  you've  got  a  good  deal  before  you." 

The  next  day  not  a  word  was  said  to  Jerome  about 
Lawrence  Prescott's  expected  call.  He  noticed 
vaguely  that  something  unusual  seemed  to  be  going 
on  in  the  parlor ;  then  divined,  with  a  careless  dis 
missal  of  the  subject,  that  it  was  house-cleaning.  He 
had  a  secret  of  his  own  that  day  which  might  have 
rendered  him  less  curious  about  the  secrets  of  others. 
There  were  scarcely  enough  shoes  finished  to  take  to 
Dale,  only  a  half-lot,  but  Jerome  announced  his  in 
tention  of  going,  to  Ozias  Lamb,  with  assumed  care 
lessness. 

"Why  don't  ye  wait  till  the  lot  is  finished?" 
asked  Ozias. 


"  Guess  I'll  take  a  half -lot  this  time/'  replied 
Jerome. 

Ozias  eyed  him  sharply,  but  said  nothing. 

Jerome  had  in  his  room  a  little  iron-bound  strong 
box  which  had  belonged  to  his  father,  though  few 
treasures  had  poor  Abel  Edwards  ever  had  occasion 
to  store  in  it.  After  dinner  that  noon  Jerome  went 
tip-stairs,  unlocked  the  strong-box,  took  out  some 
coins,  handling  them  carefully  lest  they  jingle,  and 
put  them  in  his  leather  wallet.  Then  he  went  down 
stairs  and  out  of  the  front  door  as  stealthily  as  if  he 
had  been  thieving.  Elmira  and  her  mother  were  at 
work  in  the  parlor,  and  saw  him  go  down  the  walk 
and  disappear  up  the  road. 

' '  I'll  tell  you  what  'tis,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards,  with 
one  of  her  sharp,  confirmatory  nods,  "  J'rome's  been 
takin'  out  some  of  that  money,  an'  he's  goin'  to  Dale 
to  get  him  some  new  clothes." 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"Oh,  you  see  if  he  'ain't.  He  'ain't  got  a  coat  nor 
a  vest  fit  to  wear  to  that  party,  an'  he  knows  it.  If 
he's  taken  some  of  that  money  he's  savin'  up  towards 
the  mortgage  I'm  glad  of  it.  Folks  ought  to  have  a 
little  somethin'  as  they  go  along  ;  if  they  don't,  first 
thing  they  know  they'll  get  past  it." 

Jerome  did  not  start  for  Dale  until  it  was  quite 
late  in  the  afternoon,  working  hard  meanwhile  in  the 
shop.  The  day  was  another  of  those  typical  ones  of 
early  spring,  which  had  come  lately,  drooping  as  to 
every  leaf  and  bud  with  that  hot  languor  which 
forces  bloom.  The  door  and  windows  of  the  little 
shop  were  set  wide  open.  The  honey  and  spice- 
breaths  of  flowers  mingled  with  the  rank  effluvia  of 
leather  like  a  delicate  melodv  with  a  harsh  bass.  Je- 


281 


rome  pegged  along  in  silence  with  knitted  brow, 
yet  with  a  restraint  of  smiles  on  his  lips. 

Ozias  Lamb  also  was  silent;  his  old  face  bending 
over  his  work  was  a  concentration  of  moody  gloom. 
Ozias  was  not  as  outspoken  as  formerly  concerning 
his  bitter  taste  of  lif  e,  possibly  because  it  had  reached 
his  soul.  Jerome  sometimes  wondered  if  his  uncle 
had  troubles  that  he  did  not  know  of.  He  started 
for  Dale  so  late  that  it  was  after  sunset  when  he  re 
turned  with  a  great  parcel  under  his  arm.  He  felt 
strangely  tired,  and  just  before  he  reached  Upham 
village  he  sat  down  on  a  stone  wall,  laid  his  parcel 
carefully  at  his  side,  and  looked  about  him. 

The  spring  dusk  was  gathering  slowly,  though  at 
first  through  an  enhanced  clearness  of  upper  lights. 
All  the  gloom  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  earth  in 
silvery  breathings  of  meadows  and  gradual  stealings 
forth  of  violet  shadows  from  behind  forest  trees.  The 
sky  was  so  full  of  pure  yellow  light  that  even  the 
feathery  spring  foliage  was  darkly  outlined  against  it, 
and  one  could  see  far  within  it  the  fanning  of  the 
wings  of  the  twilight  birds.  The  air  was  cooler. 
The  breaths  of  new-turned  earth,  and  rank  young 
plants  in  marshy  places  and  woodland  ponds  were  in 
it,  overcoming  somewhat  those  of  sun-steeped  blos 
soms,  which  had  prevailed  all  day. 

The  road  from  Dale  to  Upham  lay  through  low 
land,  and  however  dry  the  night  elsewhere,  there  was 
always  a  damp  freshness.  The  circling  clamor  of 
birds  overhead  seemed  wonderfully  near.  In  the 
village  the  bell  had  begun  to  ring  for  an  evening 
prayer-meeting,  and  one  could  have  fancied  that  the 
bell  hung  in  one  of  the  neighboring  trees.  The  clear 
ness  of  sight  seemed  to  enhance  hearing,  and  possi- 


282 


bly  also  that  imagination  which  is  beyond  both  senses. 
Jerome  had  a  vague  impression  which  he  did  not 
express  to  himself,  that  he  had  come  to  a  door  wide 
open  into  spaces  beyond  all  needs  and  desires  of  the 
flesh  and  the  earthly  soul,  and  had  a  sense  of  breath 
ing  new  air.  Suddenly,  now  that  he  had  gained  this 
clear  outlook  of  spirit,  the  world,  and  all  the  things 
thereof,  seemed  to  be  at  his  back,  and  grown  dim, 
even  to  his  retrospective  thought.  The  image  even 
of  beautiful  Lucina,  which  had  dwelt  with  him  since 
Sunday,  faded,  for  she  was  not  yet  become  of  his 
spirit,  and  pertained  scarcely  to  his  flesh,  except 
through  the  simplest  and  most  rudimentary  of  hu 
man  instincts.  Jerome  glanced  at  the  parcel  con 
taining  the  fine  new  vest  and  coat  which  he  had 

O 

purchased,  and  frowned  scornfully  at  this  childish 
vanity,  which  would  lead  him  to  perk  and  plume 
and  glitter  to  the  sun,  like  any  foolish  bird  which 
would  awake  the  desire  of  the  eyes  in  another. 

"What  a  fool  I  am  \"  he  muttered,  and  looked  at 
the  great  open  of  sky  again,  and  was  half  minded  to 
take  his  purchases  back  to  Dale. 

However,  when  the  clear  gold  of  the  sky  began  to 
pale  and  a  great  star  shone  out  over  the  west,  ho 
rose,  took  up  his  parcel,  and  went  home. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  parlor.  He  thought  indif 
ferently  that  Paulina  Maria  Judd  or  his  aunt  Belinda 
might  be  in  there  calling  on  his  mother ;  but  when 
he  went  into  the  kitchen  his  mother  sat  there,  and 
both  the  other  women  were  with  her. 

The  supper-table  was  still  standing.  "Where 
have  you  been,  Jerome  Edwards  ?"  cried  his  mother. 
She  cast  a  sharp  look  at  his  parcel,  but  said  nothing 
about  it.  Jerome  laid  it  on  top  of  the  old  desk 


288 


wliicli  had  belonged  to  his  father.  "  I  have  been 
over  to  Dale,"  he  replied ;  "I  didn't  start  very 
early." 

His  aunt  Belinda  looked  at  him  amiably.  She 
had  not  changed  much.  Her  face,  shaded  by  her  long- 
curls,  had  that  same  soft  droop  as  of  a  faded  flower. 
Once  past  her  bloom  of  the  flesh,  there  was,  in  a 
woman  so  little  beset  by  storms  of  the  spirit  as 
Belinda  Lamb,  little  further  change  possible  until 
she  dropped  entirely  from  her  tree  of  life.  She 
looked  at  Jerome  with  the  amiable  light  of  a  smile 
rather  than  a  smile  itself,  and  said,  with  her  old, 
weak,  but  clinging  pounce  upon  disturbing  trifles, 
"Why,  Jerome,  you  'ain't  been  all  this  time  gettin' 
to  Dale  an'  back  ?" 

"  I  didn't  hurry,"  replied  Jerome,  coldly,  drawing 
a  chair  up  to  the  supper-table.  He  had  always  a 
sensation  of  nervous  impatience  with  this  mild,  neg 
atively  sweet  woman  which  he  could  not  overcome, 
though  he  felt  shamed  by  it.  He  preferred  to  see 
Paulina  Maria,  though  between  her  and  himself  a 
covert  antagonism  survived  the  open  one  of  his  boy 
hood — at  least,  he  could  dislike  her  without  dislik 
ing  himself. 

The  candle-light  fell  full  upon  Paulina  Maria's  face, 
which  was  even  more  transparent  than  formerly  ;  so 
transfused  was  her  clear  profile  by  the  candle-light 
that  the  outlines  seemed  almost  to  waver  and  be  lost. 
She  was  knitting  a  fine  white  cotton  stocking  in  an 
intricate  pattern,  and  did  not  look  at  Jerome,  or  speak 
to  him,  beyond  her  first  nod  of  recognition  when  lie 
entered. 

Presently,  however,  Jerome  turned  to  her.  "  How 
is  Henry  ?"  he  inquired. 


284 


"About  the  same,"  she  replied,  in  her  clear  voice, 
which  was  unexpectedly  load,  and  seemed  to  have  a 
curious  after-tone. 

"  His  eyes  are  no  worse,  then  ?" 

"No  worse,  and  no  better." 

"  Can't  he  do  any  more  than  he  did  last  year  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Edwards. 

"No,  he  can't.  He  hasn't  been  able  to  do  a  stitch 
on  shoes  since  last  Thanksgiving.  He  can't  do  any 
thing  but  sit  at  the  window  and  knit  plain  knittin'. 
I  don't  know  how  he  would  get  along,  if  I  hadn't 
showed  him  how  to  do  that.  I  believe  he'd  go  crazy." 
•  "Don't  you  think  that  last  stuff  Doctor  Prescott 
put  in  his  eyes  did  him  any  good  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Edwards. 

"No,  I  don't.  He  didn't  think  it  would,  himself. 
He  said  all  there  was  to  do  was  to  go  to  Boston  and 
see  that  great  doctor  there  and  have  an  operation, 
an'  it's  goin'  to  cost  three  hundred  dollars.  Three 
hundred  dollars!  —  it's  easy  enough  to  talk  —  three 
hundred  dollars !  Adoniram  has  been  laid  up  with 
jaundice  half  the  winter.  I've  bound  shoes,  and  I've 
knit  these  fine  stockin's  for  Mis'  Doctor  Prescott. 
They  go  towards  the  doctor's  bill,  but  they're  a  drop 
in  the  bucket.  She'd  allow  considerable  on  them, 
but  it  ain't  her  say.  Three  hundred  dollars  !" 

"It's  a  sight  of  money,"  said  Belinda  Lamb.  "I 
s'pose  you  could  mortgage  the  house,  Paulina  Maria, 
and  then  when  Henry  got  his  eyesight  back  he  could 
work  to  pay  it  off." 

A  deep  red  transfused  Paulina  Maria's  transparent 
pallor,  but  before  she  could  speak  Ann  Edwards 
interposed.  "  Mortgage  !"  said  she,  with  a  sniff  of 
her  nostrils,  as  if  she  scented  battle.  "  Mortgage  ! 


285 


Load  a  poor  horse  down  to  the  ground  till  his  legs 
break  under  him,  set  a  baby  to  layin'  a  stone  wall  till 
he  drops,  but  don't  talk  to  me  of  mortgages  ;  I  guess 
I  know  enough  about  them.  My  poor  husband 
would  have  been  alive  and  well  to-day  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  a  mortgage.  It  sounds  easy  enough — jest  a 
little  interest  money  to  pay  every  year,  an'  all  this 
money  down ;  but  I  tell  you  'tis  like  a  leech  that 
sucks  at  body  and  soul.  You  get  so  the  mortgage 
looks  worse  than  your  sins,  an'  you  pray  to  be  for 
given  that  instead  of  them.  I  know.  Don't  you  have 
a  mortgage  put  on  your  house,  Paulina  Maria  Judd, 
or  you'll  rue  the  day.  I'd — steal  before  I'd  do  it !" 

Paulina  Maria  made  no  response;  she  was  quite 
pale  again. 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid  Henry  would  go 
entirely  blind  if  you  didn't  have  something  done  for 
him,"  said  Belinda  Lamb. 

te  I  be,"  replied  Paulina  Maria,  sternly.  She  rose 
to  go,  and  Belinda  also,  with  languid  response  of  mo 
tion,  as  if  Paulina  Maria  were  an  upstirring  wind. 

When  Paulina  Maria  opened  the  outer  door  there 
was  a  rush  of  dank  night  air. 

' '  Don't  you  want  me  to  walk  home  with  you  and 
Aunt  Belinda  ?"  asked  Jerome.  "  It's  pretty  dark." 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  Paulina  Maria,  grimly, 
looking  back,  a  pale,  wavering  shape  against  the  par 
allelogram  of  night;  "the  things  I'm  afraid  of  walk 
in  the  light  as  much  as  the  dark,  an'  you  can't  keep 
'em  off." 

"You  make  me  creep,  talkin' so,"  Belinda  Lamb 
said,  as  she  and  Paulina  Maria,  two  women  of  one 
race,  with  their  souls  at  the  antipodes  of  things,  went 
down  the  path  together. 


"I  hope  Paulina  Maria  won't  put  a  mortgage 
on  her  house ;  Henry  'd  better  be  blind,"  said  Ann 
Edwards,  when  they  had  gone. 

Jerome,  finishing  his  supper,  said  nothing,  but  he 
knew,  and  Paulina  Maria  knew  that  he  knew,  there 
was  already  a  mortgage  on  her  house.  When  Jerome 
rose  from  the  table  his  mother  pointed  at  the  parcel 
on  the  desk. 

"  What's  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  had  to  buy  a  coat  and  vest  if  I  was  going  to 
that  party,"  replied  Jerome,  with  a  kind  of  dogged 
embarrassment.  He  had  never  felt  so  confused  before 
his  mother's  sharp  eyes  since  he  was  a  child.  If  she 
had  blamed  him  for  his  purchase,  he  would  have  been 
an  easy  victim,  but  she  did  not. 

"What  did  you  get  ?"  she  asked. 

"I'll  show  you  in  the  morning — you  can  see  them 
better." 

"Well,  you  needed  them,  if  you  are  goin'  to  the 
party.  You've  got  to  look  a  little  like  folks.  Where 
you  goin'  ?"  for  Jerome  had  started  towards  the  door. 

"  Into  the  parlor  to  get  a  book."  He  opened  the 
door,  but  his  mother  beckoned  him  back  mysteriously, 
and  he  closed  it  softly. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  wonderingly.  "Who  is 
there  ?  Has  Elmira  got  company  ?" 

"  Belinda  Lamb  begun  quizzin'  as  soon  as  she  got 
in  here ;  said  she  thought  she  heard  a  man  talking  an' 
asked  if  it  was  you ;  an'  when  I  said  it  wa'ii't,  wanted 
to  know  who  it  was.  I  told  her  right  to  her  face  it 
was  none  of  her  business." 

"Who  is  it  in  there,  mother  ?"  asked  Jerome. 

"It  ain't  anybody  to  make  any  fuss  about." 

"Who  is  it  in  there  with  Elmira  ?" 


287 


"It's  Lawrence  Prescott,  that's  who  it  is,"  replied 
his  mother,  who  was  more  wary  in  defence  than  at 
tack,  yet  defiant  enough  when  the  struggle  came. 
She  looked  at  Jerome  with  unflinching  eyes. 

"  Lawrence  Prescott  I" 

"Yes,  what  of  it?" 

"Mother,  he  isn't  going  to  pay  attention  to 
Elmira !" 

"Why  not,  if  he  wants  to  ?  He's  as  likely  a  young 
fellow  as  there  is  in  town.  She  won't  be  likely  to  do 
any  better." 

Jerome  stared  at  his  mother  in  utter  bewilderment. 
"  Mother,  are  you  out  of  your  senses  ?"  he  gasped. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  am,"  said  she. 

"Don't  you  know  that  Doctor  Prescott  would  turn 
Lawrence  out  of  house  and  home  if  he  thought  he 
was  going  to  marry  Elmira  ?" 

"I  guess  she's  good  enough  for  him.  You  can 
run  down  your  own  sister  all  you  want  to,  Jerome 
Edwards."' 

"I  am  not  running  her  down.  I  don't  deny  she's 
good  enough  for  any  man  on  earth,  but  not  with  the 
kind  of  goodness  that  counts.  Mother,  don't  you 
know  that  nothing  but  trouble  can  come  to  Elmira 
from  this  ?  Lawrence  Prescott  can't  marry  her." 

"  I'd  like  to  knoAV  what  you  mean  by  trouble  comin' 
to  her,"  demanded  his  mother.  A  hot  red  of  shame 
and  wrath  flashed  all  over  her  little  face  and  neck 
as  she  spoke,  and  Jerome,  perceiving  his  mother's 
thought,  blushed  at  that,  and  not  at  his  own. 

"  I  meant  that  he  would  have  to  leave  her,  and 
make  her  miserable  in  the  end,  and  that  is  all  I  did 
mean,"  he  said,  indignantly.  "He  can't  marry  her, 
and  you  know  it  as  well  as  I.  Then  there  is  some- 


288 


thing  else,"  he  added,  as  a  sudden  recollection  flashed 
over  his  mind :  "he  was  out  riding  horseback  with 
Lucina  Merritt  Monday." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  his 'mother  said, 
hotly. 

"  I  saw  him." 

"Well,  what  of  it  if  he  did  ?  She's  the  only  girl 
here  that  rides  horseback,  an'  I  s'pose  he  wanted  com 
pany.  Mebbe  her  father  asked  him  to  go  with  her 
in  case  her  horse  got  scared  at  anything.  I  shouldn't 
be  a  mite  surprised  if  he  had  to  go  and  couldn't 
help  himself.  He  wouldn't  like  to  refuse  if  he  was 
asked." 

"Mother,  you  know  that  Lucina  Merritt  is  the 
only  girl  in  this  town  that  Doctor  Prescott  would 
think  was  fit  to  marry  his  son,  and  you  know  his 
family  have  always  had  to  do  just  as  he  said." 

"I  don't  know  any  such  thing,"  returned  his 
mother ;  her  voice  of  dissent  had  the  shrill  persistency 
of  a  cricket's.  "  Doctor  Prescott  always  took  a  sight 
of  notice  of  Elmira  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and  he 
used  to  come  here.  He  never  took  to  you,  I  know, 
but  he  always  did  to  Elmira." 

Jerome  said  no  more.  He  lighted  a  candle,  took 
his  parcel  of  new  clothes,  and  went  up-stairs  to  his 
chamber. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  before  Lawrence  Prescott 
went  home.  Jerome  had  not  gone  to  bed ;  .he  was 
waiting  to  speak  to  his  sister.  When  he  heard  her 
step  on  the  stairs  he  opened  his  door.  Elmira, 
candle  in  hand,  came  slowly  up  the  stair,  holding  her 
skirt  up  lest  she  trip  over  it.  When  she  reached 
the  landing  her  brother  confronted  her,  and  she  gave 
a  little  startled  cry ;  then  stood,  her  eyes  cast  down 


"  'NOTHING,'  SAID  HER  BROTHER  ;  '  GOOD-NIGHT  '  " 


289 


before  him,  and  the  candle-light  shining  over  the 
sweet  redness  and  radiance  of  her  face,  which  was 
at  that  moment  nothing  but  a  sign  and  symbol  of 
maiden  love. 

All  at  once  Jerome  seemed  to  grasp  the  full  mean 
ing  of  it.  His  own  face  deepened  and  glowed,  and 
looked  strangely  like  his  sister's.  It  was  as  if  he 
began  to  learn  involuntarily  his  own  lesson  from  an 
other's  text-book.  Suddenly,  instead  of  his  sister's 
face  he  seemed  to  see  Lucina  Merritt's.  That  look 
of  love  which  levels  mankind  to  one  family  was  over 
his  memory  of  her. 

"  What  did  you  want  ?"  Elmira  asked,  at  length, 
timidly,  but  laughing  before  him  at  the  same  time 
like  a  foolish  child  who  cannot  conceal  delight. 

"Nothing/3  said  her  brother;  " good-night,"  and 
went  into  his  chamber  and  shut  his  door. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  most  intimate  friends  in  unwonted  gala  attire 
are  always  something  of  a  revelation  to  one  another. 
Butterflies,  meeting  for  the  first  time  after  their  re 
lease  from  chrysalis,  might  well  have  the  same  awe 
and  confusion  of  old  memories. 

On  the  night  of  the  party,  when  they  were  dressed 
and  had  come  down-stairs,  Jerome,  who  had  seen  his 
sister  every  day  of  his  life,  looked  at  her  as  if  for 
the  first  time,  and  she  looked  in  the  same  way  at  him. 
Elmira's  Aunt  Belinda  Lamb  had  given  her,  some 
time  before,  a  white  muslin  gown  of  her  girlhood. 

"I  'ain't  got  any  daughter  to  make  it  over  for," 
said  she,  "an'  you  might  as  well  have  it."  Belinda 
Lamb  had  looked  regretfully  at  its  voluminous  folds, 
as  she  passed  it  over  to  Elmira.  Privately  she  could 
not  see  why  she  should  not  wear  it  still,  but  she 
knew  that  she  would  not  dare  face  Paulina  Maria 
when  attired  in  it. 

Elmira,  after  much  discussion  with  her  mother, 
had  decided  upon  refurbishing  this  old  white  muslin, 
and  wearing  that  instead  of  her  new  green  silk  to 
the  party. 

"  It  will  look  more  airy  for  an  evenin'  company," 
said  Mrs.  Edwards,  "an'  the  skirt  is  so  full  you  can 
take  out  some  of  the  breadths  an'  make  ruffles." 

Elmira  and  her  mother  had  toiled  hard  to  make 
those  ruffles  and  finish  their  daily  stent  on  shoes,  but 


291 


the  dress  was  in  readiness  and  Elmira  arrayed  in  it 
before  eight  o'clock  on  Thursday  night.  Her  dress 
had  a  fan  waist  cut  low,  with  short  puffs  for  sleeves. 
Her  neck,,  displaying,  as  it  did,  soft  hollows  rather 
than  curves,  and  her  arms,  delicately  angular  at  wrists 
and  elbows,  were  still  beautiful.  She  was  thin,  but 
her  bones  were  so  small  that  little  flesh  was  required 
to  conceal  harsh  outlines. 

She  wore  a  black  velvet  ribbon  tied  around  her 
throat,  and  from  it  hung  a  little  gold  locket — one 
of  the  few  treasures  of  her  mother's  girlhood.  El 
mira  had  tended  a  little  pot  of  rose-geranium  in  a 
south  window  all  winter.  This  spring  it  was  full  of 
pale  pink  bloom.  She  had  made  a  little  chaplet  of 
the  fragrant  leaves  and  flowers  to  adorn  her  smooth 
dark  hair,  and  also  a  pretty  knot  for  her  breast.  Her 
skirt  was  ruffled  to  her%  slender  waist  with  tiniest 
frills  of  the  diaphanous  muslin.  Elmira  in  her  party 
gown  looked  like  a  double  white  flower  herself. 

As  for  Jerome,  he  felt  awkwardly  self-conscious  in 
his  new  clothes,  but  bore  himself  so  proudly  as  to 
conceal  it.  It  requires  genuine  valor  to  overcome 
new  clothes,  when  one  seldom  has  them.  They  be 
come,  under  such  circumstances,  more  than  clothes — 
they  are  at  least  skin-deep.  However,  Jerome  had 
that  valor.  He  had  bought  a  suit  of  fine  blue  cloth, 
and  a  vest  of  flowered  white  satin  like  a  bridegroom's. 
He  wore  his  best  shirt  with  delicate  cambric  ruffles 
on  bosom  and  wristbands,  and  his  throat  was  swathed 
in  folds  of  sheerest  lawn,  which  he  kept  his  chin  clear 
of,  with  a  splendid  and  stately  lift.  Jerome's  hair, 
which  was  darker  than  when  he  was  a  boy,  was 
brushed  carefully  into  a  thick  crest  over  his  white 
forehead,  which  had,  like  a  child's,  a  bold  and  in- 


292 


nocent  fulness  of  curve  at  the  temples.  He  had  not 
usually  much  color,  but  that  night  his  cheeks  were 
glowing,  and  his  black  eyes,  commonly  somewhat 
stern  from  excess  of  earnestness,  were  brilliant  with 
the  joy  of  youth. 

Mrs.  Edwards  looked  at  one,  then  the  other,  with 
the  delighted  surprise  of  a  mother  bird  who  sees  her 
offspring  in  their  first  gayety  of  full  plumage.  She 
picked  a  thread  from  Jerome's  coat,  she  put  back  a 
stray  lock  of  Elmira's  hair,  she  bade  them  turn  this 
way  and  that. 

When  they  had  started  she  hitched  her  chair  close 
to  the  window,  pressed  her  forehead  against  the 
glass,  looked  out,  and  watched  the  white  flutter  of 
Elmira's  skirts  until  they  disappeared  in  the  dark 
folds  of  the  night. 

There  was,  that  night,  M  soft  commotion  of  air 
rather  than  any  distinct  current  of  wind,  like  a  gen 
tle  heaving  and  subsidence  of  veiled  breasts  of  nature. 
The  tree  branches  spread  and  gloomed  with  deeper 
shadows  ;  mysterious  white  things  with  indeterminate 
motions  were  seen  aloof  across  meadows  or  in  door- 
yards,  and  might  have  been  white-clad  women,  or 
flowering  bushes,  or  ghosts. 

Jerome  and  Elmira,  when  one  of  these  pale  visions 
seemed  floating  from  some  shadowy  gateway  ahead, 
wondered  to  each  other  if  this  or  that  girl  were  just 
starting  for  the  party,  but  when  they  drew  near  the 
whiteness  stirred  at  the  gate  still,  and  was  only  a 
bush  of  bridal-wreath.  Jerome  and  Elmira  were 
really  the  last  on  the  road  to  the  party ;  Upham  people 
went  early  to  festivities. 

"  It  is  very  late,"  Elmira  said,  nervously  ;  she  held 
up  her  white  skirts,  ruffling  softly  to  the  wind,  with 


293 


both  hands,  lest  they  trail  the  dewy  grass,  and  flew 
along  like  a  short-winged  bird  at  her  brother's  side. 
"  Please  walk  faster,  Jerome,"  said  she. 

"  We'll  have  time  enough  there,"  returned  Jerome, 
stepping  high  and  gingerly,  lest  he  soil  his  nicely 
blacked  shoes. 

"It  will  be  dreadful  to  go  in  late  and  have  them 
all  looking  at  us,  Jerome." 

"What  if  they  do  look  at  us,"  Jerome  argued, 
manfully,  but  he  was  in  reality  himself  full  of  ner 
vous  tremors.  Sometimes,  to  a  soul  with  a  broad 
outlook  and  large  grasp,  the  great  stresses  of  life  are 
not  as  intimidating  as  its  small  and.  deceitful  amen 
ities. 

When  they  reached  Squire  Merritt's  house  and 
saw  all  the  windows,  parallelograms  of  golden  light, 
shining  through  the  thick  growth  of  trees,  his  hands 
and  feet  were  cold,  his  heart  beat  hard.  "Fm  acting 
like  a  girl,"  he  thought,  indignantly,  straightened 
himself,  and  marched  on  to  the  front  door,  as  if  it 
were  the  postern  of  a  fortress. 

But  Elmira  caught  her  brother  by  the  long,  blue 
coat-tail,  and  brought  him  to  a  stand. 

"  Oh,  Jerome,"  she  whispered,  "  there  are  so  many 
there,  and  we  are  so  late,  Fm  afraid  to  go  in." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?"  demanded  Jerome, 
with  a  rustic  brusqueness  which  was  foreign  to  him. 
"Come  along."  He  pulled  his  coat  away  and  strode 
on,  and  Elmira  had  to  follow. 

The  front  door  of  Squire  Merritt's  house  stood 
open  into  the  hall  the  night  was  so  warm,  some  girls 
in  white  were  coming  down  the  wide  spiral  of  stair 
within,  pressing  softly  together  like  scared  white 
doves,  in  silence  save  for  the  rustle  of  their  starched 


294 


skirts.  From  the  great  rooms  on  either  side  of  the 
hall,  however,  came  the  murmur  of  conversation,  with 
now  and  then  a  silvery  break  of  laughter,  like  a  sud 
den  cascade  in  an  even  current. 

Flower-decked  heads  and  silken-gleaming  shoul 
ders  passed  between  the  windows  and  the  light,  outlin 
ing  vividly  every  line  and  angle  and  curve — the  keen 
cut  of  profiles,  the  scallops  of  perked -up  lace,  the 
sharp  dove-tails  of  ribbons.  Before  one  window  was 
upreared  the  great  back  and  head  of  a  man,  still  as  a 
statue,  yet  with  the  persistency  of  stillness,  of  life. 

That  dogged  stiffness,  which  betrays  the  utter  self- 
abasement  of  rusticity  in  fine  company,  was  evident 
in  his  pose,  even  to  one  coming  up  the  path.  This 
party  at  Squire  Merritt's  was  democratic,  including 
many  whose  only  experiences  in  social  gatherings  of 
their  neighbors  had  come  through  daily  labor  and 
worship.  All  the  young  people  in  Upham  had  been 
invited ;  the  Squire's  three  boon  companions,  Doctor 
Prescott  and  his  wife,  and  the  minister  and  his 
daughter,  were  the  only  elders  bidden,  since  the  party 
was  for  Lucina. 

"  The  door's  open,"  Elmira  whispered,  nervously. 
"  Is  it  right  to  knock  when  the  door's  open,  or  walk 
right  in,  0  Jerome  ?" 

Jerome,  for  answer,  stepped  resolutely  in,  reached 
the  knocker,  raised  it,  and  let  it  fall  with  a  great  im 
perious  clang  of  brass,  defying,  as  it  were,  his  own 
shyness,  like  a  herald  at  arms. 

The  white-clad  girls  on  the  stairs  turned  as  with 
one  accord  their  innocently  abashed  faces  towards 
the  door,  then  pushed  one  another  on,  and  into  the 
parlor,  with  soft  titters  and  whispers. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt's  old  servant,  Hannah,  gravely 


295 


ponderous  in  purple  delaine,  with  a  wide  white  apron 
enhancing  her  great  front,  came  forward  from  the 
room  in  the  rear  and  motioned  Jerome  and  Elmira  to 
the  stairs.  She  stared  wonderingly  after  Jerome ; 
she  did  not  recognize  him  in  his  fine  attire,  though 
she  had  known  him  since  he  was  a  child. 

When  Jerome  and  Elmira  came  down-stairs  he  led 
the  way  at  once  into  the  north  parlor,  where  the  most 
of  the  guests  were  assembled.  There  were  the  vil 
lage  young  women  in  their  best  attire,  decked  as  to 
heads  and  bosoms  with  sweet  drooping  flowers,  dis 
playing  all  their  humble  stores  of  lace  and  ribbons 
and  trinkets,  jostling  one  another  with  slurring  hisses 
of  silk  and  crisp  rattle  of  muslins,  speaking  affectedly 
with  pursed  lips,  ending  often  a  sibilant  with  a  fine 
whistle,  or  silent,  with  mouths  set  in  conscious  smiles 
and  cheeks  hot  with  blushes.  There  were  the  village 
young  men,  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  standing  aloof 
from  the  girls,  now  and  then  exchanging  remarks 
with  one  another  in  a  bravado  of  low  bass.  In  the 
rear  of  the  north  parlor  were  Lucina  and  her  parents, 
Mrs.  Doctor  Prescott  and  Lawrence,  Miss  Camilla 
Merritt,  and  the  Squire's  friends,  Colonel  Lamson, 
John  Jennings,  and  Lawyer  Means. 

Jerome,  with  Elmira  following,  made  his  way  slow 
ly  through  the  outskirts  towards  this  fine  nucleus  of 
the  party.  Lawrence  Prescott  was  talking  gayly  with 
Lucina,  but  when  he  saw  Jerome  and  his  sister  ap 
proaching  he  stood  back,  with  a  slight  flush  and  start, 
beside  his  mother,  who  with  Miss  Camilla  was  seated 
on  the  great  sofa  between  the  north  windows.  Mrs. 
Prescott  fanned  herself  slowly  with  a  large  feather 
fan,  and  beamed  abroad  with  a  sweet  graciousness. 
Her  handsome  face  seemed  to  fairly  shed  a  mild  light 


of  approval  upon  the  company.  She  stirred  with 
opulent  foldings  of  velvet,  shaking  out  vague  musky 
odors;  a  brooch  in  the  fine  lace  plaits  over  her  high 
maternal  bosom  gave  out  a  dull  white  gleam  of  old 
brilliants.  Mrs.  Prescott  was  more  sumptuously  at 
tired  than  the  Squire's  wife,  in  her  crimson  and  gold 
shot  silk,  which  became  her  well,  but  was  many 
seasons  old,  or  than  Miss  Camilla,  in  her  grand  pur 
ple  satin,  that  also  was  old,  but  so  well  matched  to  her 
own  grace  of  age  that  it  seemed  like  the  garment  of 
her  youth,  which  had  faded  like  it,  in  sweet  communion 
with  peaceful  thoughts  and  lavender  and  rose-leaves. 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  stood  between  his  wife  and 
daughter.  Lucina  had  fastened  a  pretty  posy  in  his 
button-hole,  and  he  wore  his  fine  new  broadcloths, 
to  please  her,  which  he  had  bought  for  this  occasion. 

The  Squire,  though  scarcely  at  home  in  his  north 
parlor,  nor  in  his  grand  apparel,  which  had  never 
figured  in  haunts  of  fish  or  game,  was  yet  radiant 
with  jovial  and  hearty  hospitality,  and  not  even  im 
patient  for  the  cards  and  punch  which  awaited  him 
and  his  friends  in  the  other  room,  when  his  social 
duties  should  be  fulfilled. 

Lucina  herself  had  set  out  the  cards  and  the  to 
bacco,  and  made  a  garland  of  myrtle-leaves  and  vio 
lets  for  the  punch-bowl  in  honor  of  the  occasion. 
"  I  want  you  to  have  the  best  time  of  anybody  at  my 
party,  father,"  she  had  said,  "and  as  soon  as  all  the 
guests  have  arrived,  you  must  go  and  play  cards 
with  Colonel  Lamson  and  the  others." 

No  other  in  the  whole  world,  not  even  her  mother, 
did  Lucina  love  as  well  as  she  loved  her  father,  and 
the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  no  other  had  she  so 
deeply  at  heart. 


297 


At  the  Squire's  elbow,  standing  faithfully  by  him 
until  he  should  get  his  release,  were  his  three  friends: 
John  Jennings  and  Lawyer  Eliphalet  Means  in  their 
ancient  swallow-tails — John  Jennings's  being  of  re 
nowned  London  make,  though  nobody  in  Upham 
appreciated  that — and  Colonel  Jack  Lamson  in  his 
old  dress  uniform.  Colonel  Lamson,  having  grown 
stouter  of  late  years,  wore  with  a  mighty  discomfort 
of  the  flesh  but  with  an  unyielding  spirit  his  old 
clothes  of  state. 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  thought  I  could  get  into  'em 
at  first,  Eben,"  he  had  told  the  Squire  when  he 
arrived.  "  Haven't  had  them  on  since  I  was  pall 
bearer  at  poor  Jim  Pell's  funeral.  I  was  bound  to  do 
your  girl  honor,  but  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  dance  in  'em 
— I  tell  you  it  wouldn't  be  safe,  Eben." 

The  Colonel  looked  with  intense  seriousness  at  his 
friend,  then  laughed  hoarsely.  His  laugh  was  al 
ways  wheezy  of  late,  and  he  breathed  hard  when  he 
took  exercise. 

Sometime  in  his  dim  and  shady  past  Colonel  Lam 
son  was  reported  to  have  had  a  wife.  She  had  never 
been  seen  in  Upham,  and  was  commonly  believed  to 
have  died  at  some  Western  post  during  the  first  years 
of  their  marriage.  Probably  the  beautiful  necklace  of 
carved  corals,  which  the  Colonel  had  brought  that 
night  for  a  present  to  Lucina,  had  belonged  to  that 
long-dead  young  wife;  but  not  even  the  Squire  knew. 

As  for  John  Jennings,  he  had  never  had  a  wife, 
and  the  trinkets  he  had  bestowed  upon  sweethearts 
remained  still  in  their  keeping  ;  but  he  brought  a  pair 
of  little  pearl  ear-rings  for  Lucina,  and  never  wore  his 
diamond  shirt-button  again.  Lawyer  Eliphalet  Means 
brought  for  his  offering  a  sandal-wood  fan,  a  veritable 


298 


lacework  of  wood,  spreading  it  himself  in  his  lean 
brown  hand,  which  matched  in  hue,  and  eying  it 
with  a  sort  of  dryly  humorous  satisfaction  before  he 
gave  it  into  Lucina's  keeping. 

Squire  Eben,  despite  his  gratification  for  his  daugh 
ter's  sake,  burst  into  a  great  laugh.  "By  the  Lord 
Harry  !"  cried  he  ;  "you  didn't  go  into  a  shop  your 
self  and  ask  for  that  folderol  ?" 

"  Got  it  through  a  sea-captain,  from  India,  years 
ago/'  replied  the  lawyer,  laconically. 

"  Wouldn't  she  take  it  ?"  inquired  Colonel  Lamson, 
with  sly  meaning,  his  round,  protruding  eyes  staring 
hard  at  his  friend  and  the  fan. 

"Never  gave  her  the  chance,"  said  Means,  with 
a  shrewd  twinkle.  Then  he  turned  to  Lucina,  with 
a  stiff  but  courtly  bow,  and  presented  the  sandal-wood 
fan,  and  not  one  of  them  knew  then,  nor  ever  after, 
its  true  history. 

Lucina  had  joyfully  heard  the  clang  of  the  knocker 
when  Jerome  arrived,  thinking  that  they  were  the 
last  guests,  and  her  father  could  have  his  pleasure. 
Doctor  Prescott  had  been  called  to  Granby  and  would 
not  come  until  late,  if  at  all ;  the  minister,  it  was 
reported,  was  ill  with  influenza — she  and  her  mother 
had  agreed  that  the  Squire  need  not  wait  for  them. 

When  Lucina  saw  the  throng  parting  for  the  new 
comers,  she  assumed  involuntarily  her  pose  of  sweet 
and  gracious  welcome  ;  but  when  Jerome  and  his  sis 
ter  stood  before  her,  she  started  and  lost  composure. 

Lucina  remembered  Elmira  well  enough,  and  had 
thought  she  remembered  Jerome  since  last  Sunday, 
when  her  father,  calling  to  mind  their  frequent  meet 
ings  in  years  back,  had  chidden  her  lightly  for  not 
speaking  to  him. 


299 


"  He  has  grown  and  changed  so,  father/'  Lucina 
had  said;  "I  did  not  mean  to  be  discourteous,  and  I 
will  remember  him  another  time." 

Lucina  had  really  considered  afterwards,  saying 
nothing  to  her  father  or  her  mother,  that  the  young 
man  was  very  handsome.  She  had  sat  quite  still 
that  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  meeting-house,  and,  in 
stead  of  listening  to  the  sermon,  had  searched  her 
memory  for  old  pictures  of  Jerome.  She  had  re 
called  distinctly  the  tea-drinking  in  her  aunt  Ca 
milla's  arbor,  his  refusal  of  cake,  and  gift  of  sas 
safras-root  in  the  meadow;  also  his  repulse  of  her 
childish  generosity  when  she  would  have  given  him 
her  little  savings  for  the  purchase  of  shoes.  Old 
stings  of  the  spirit  can  often  be  revived  with  thought, 
even  when  the  cause  is  long  passed.  Lucina,  sitting 
there  in  meeting,  felt  again  the  pang  of  her  slight 
ed  benevolence.  She  was  sure  that  she  would  re 
member  Jerome  at  once  the  next  time  they  met,  but 
for  a  minute  she  did  not.  She  bowed  and  shook 
hands  prettily  with  Elmira,  then  turned  to  Jerome 
and  stared  at  him,  all  unmindful  of  her  manners, 
thinking  vaguely  that  here  was  some  grand  young 
gentleman  who  had  somehow  gotten  into  her  party 
unbidden.  Such  a  fool  do  externals  make  of  the 
memory,  which  needs  long  training  to  know  the 
same  bird  in  different  feathers. 

Lucina  stared  at  Jerome,  at  first  with  grave  and 
innocent  wonder,  then  suddenly  her  eyes  drooped 
and  a  soft  blush  crept  over  her  face  and  neck,  and 
even  her  arms.  Lucina,  in  her  short-sleeved  India 
muslin  gown,  flowing  softly  from  its  gathering  around 
her  white  shoulders  to  her  slender  waist,  where  a 
blue  ribbon  bound  it.  and  thence  in  lines  of  trans- 


300 


parent  lights  and  blue  shadows  to  her  little  pointed 
satin  toe,  stood  before  him  with  a  sort  of  dumb- 
maiden  appealing  that  he  should  not  look  at  her  so, 
but  he  was  helpless,  as  with  a  grasp  of  vision  which 
he  could  not  loosen. 

Jerome  looked  at  her  as  the  first  man  might  have 
looked  at  the  first  woman ;  the  world  was  empty  but 
for  him  and  her.  The  voices  of  the  company  were 
ages  distant,  their  eyes  dim  across  eternal  spaces. 
The  fragrance  of  sweet  lavender  and  dried  rose- 
leaves  from  Lucina's  garments,  and,  moreover,  a 
strange  Oriental  one',  that  seemed  to  accent  the 
whole,  from  her  sandal-wood  fan,  was  to  him,  as  by 
a  transposing  into  a  different  key  of  sense,  like  some 
old  melody  of  life  which  he  had  always  known,  and 
yet  so  forgotten  that  it  had  become  new. 

Jerome  never  knew  how  long  he  stood  there,  but  sud 
denly  he  felt  the  Squire's  kindly  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  heard  his  loud,  jovial  voice  in  his  ear.  "  Why,  Je 
rome,  my  boy,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Don't  you  remem 
ber  my  daughter  ?  Lucina,  where  are  your  manners  ?" 

And  then  Lucina  curtesied  low,  with  her  fair  curls 
drooping  forward  over  her  blushing  face  and  neck, 
as  pink  as  her  corals,  and  Jerome  bowed  and  strove 
to  say  something,  but  he  knew  not  what,  and  never 
knew  what  he  said,  nor  anybody  else. 

"'Twas  the  new  clothes,  boy,"  said  the  Squire  in 
his  ear.  "  By  the  Lord  Harry,  'twas  much  as  ever  I 
knew  you  myself  at  first !  I  took  you  for  an  earl 
over  from  the  old  country.  Lucina  meant  no  harm. 
Go  you  now  and  have  a  talk  with  her." 

Jerome  wondered  anxiously  afterwards  if  he  had 
spoken  properly  to  the  Squire's  wife,  to  Mrs.  Doctor 
Prescott,  to  Miss  Camilla,  and  the  others — if  he  had 


301 


looked,  even,  at  anybody  but  Lucina.  He  remem 
bered  the  party  as  he  might  have  remembered  a 
kaleidoscope,  of  which  only  one  combination  of  form 
and  color  abided  with  him.  He  realized  all  beside,  as 
a  broad  effect  with  no  detail.  The  card-playing  and 
punch-drinking  in  the  other  room,  the  preliminary 
timing  of  fiddles  in  the  hall,  the  triumphant  strains 
of  a  country  dance,  the  weaving  of  the  figures,  the 
gay  voices  of  the  village  youths,  who  lost  all  their 
abashedness  as  the  evening  went  on,  the  supper,  the 
table  gleaming  with  the  white  lights  of  silver  and  the 
rainbow  lustre  of  glass,  the  golden  points  of  candles 
in  the  old  candelabra,  the  fruity  and  spicy  odors  of 
cake  and  wine,  were  all  as  a  dimness  and  vagueness 
of  brilliance  itself. 

He  did  not  know,  even,  that  Lawrence  Prescott 
was  at  Elmira's  side  all  the  evening,  and  after  his 
father  arrived,  and  that  Elmira  danced  every  time 
with  him,  and  set  people  talking  and  Doctor  Prescott 
frowning.  He  knew  only  that  he  had  followed  Lucina 
about,  and  that  she  seemed  to  encourage  him  with 
soft,  leading  smiles.  That  they  sat  on  a  sofa  in  a 
corner,  behind  a  door,  and  talked,  that  once  they 
stepped  out  on  the  stoop,  and  even  strolled  a  little 
down  the  path,  under  the  trees,  when  she  complained 
of  the  room  being  hot  and  close.  Then,  without 
knowing  whether  he  should  do  so  or  not,  he  bent 
towards  her,  with  his  arm  crooked,  and  she  slipped 
her  hand  in  it,  and  they  both  trembled  and  were 
silent  for  a  moment.  He  knew  every  word  that 
Lucina  had  spoken,  and  gave  a  thousand  different 
meanings  to  each.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he 
tasted  the  sweets  of  praise  from  girlish  lips.  Lucina 
had  heard  of  his  good  deeds  from  her  father,  how 


302 


kind  he  was  to  the  poor  and  sick,  how  hard  he  had 
worked,  how  faithful  he  had  been  to  his  mother  and 
sister.  Jerome  listened  with  bliss,  and  shame  that 
he  should  find  it  bliss.  Then  Lucina  and  he  remem 
bered  together,  with  that  perfect  time  of  memory 
which  is  as  harmonious  as  any  duet,  all  the  episodes 
of  their  childhood. 

"  I  remember  how  you  gave  me  sassafras,"  said  Lu 
cina,  "and  how  you  would  not  take  the  nice  ginger 
bread  that  Hannah  made,  and  how  sad  I  felt  about  it." 

"  I  will  get  some  more  sassafras  for  you  to-mor 
row,"  said  Jerome. 

"And  I  will  give  you  some  more  gingerbread  if 
you  will  take  it,"  said  she,  with  a  sweet  coquettishness. 

"I  will,  if  you  want  me  to,"  said  Jerome. 

They  were  out  in  the  front  yard  then,  a  gust  of  wind 
pressed  under  the  trees,  and  seemed  to  blow  them 
together.  Lucina's  white  muslin  fluttered  around 
Jerome's  knees,  her  curls  floated  across  his  breast. 

"Oh,"  murmured  Lucina,  confusedly,  "this  wind 
has  come  all  of  a  sudden,"  and  she  stood^apart  from 
him. 

"You  will  take  cold  ;  we  had  better  go  in,"  said 
Jerome.  They  went  into  the  house,  Jerome  being  a 
little  hurt  that  Lucina  had  shrunk  away  from  him  so 
quickly,  and  Lucina  disappointed  that  Jerome  was  so 
solicitous  lest  she  take  cold.  Then  they  sat  down 
again  in  the  corner,  and  remembered  that  Jerome 
ate  two  pieces  of  cake  at  Miss  Camilla's  tea-party  and 
she  two  and  a  half. 

Somehow,  before  the  party  broke  up  that  night,  it 
was  understood  that  Jerome  was  to  come  and  see  her 
the  next  Sunday  night.  And  yet  Lucina  had  not  in 
vited  him,  nor  he  asked  permission  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

JEROME'S  mind,  during  the  two  days  after  the 
party,  was  in  a  sort  of  dazzle  of  efflorescence,  and 
could  not  precipitate  any  clear  ideas  for  his  own  un 
derstanding.  Love  had  been  so  outside  his  calcula 
tion  of  life,  that  his  imagination,  even,  had  scarcely 
grasped  the  possibility  of  it. 

He  worked  on  stolidly,  having  all  the  time  before 
his  mental  vision,  like  one  with  closed  eyes  in  a  bright 
ropm,  a  shifting  splendor  as  of  strange  scenes  and 
clouds. 

He  could  not  sleep  nor  eat,  his  spirit  seemed  to  in 
habit  his  fiesh  so  thoroughly  as  to  do  away  with  the 
material  needs  of  it.  Still,  all  things  that  appealed 
to  his  senses  seemed  enhanced  in  power,  becoming  so 
loud  and  so  magnified  that  they  produced  a  confusion 
of  hearing  and  vision.  The  calls  of  the  spring  birds 
sounded  as  if  in  his  very  ear,  with  an  insistence  of 
meaning ;  the  spring  flowers  bloomed  where  he  had 
never  seen  them,  and  the  fragrance  of  each  was  as 
evident  to  him  as  a  voice. 

Jerome  wondered  vaguely  if  this  strange  exaltation 
of  spirit  were  illness.  Sunday  morning,  when  he 
could  not  eat  his  breakfast,  his  mother  told  him  that 
there  were  red  spots  on  his  cheeks,  and  she  feared  he 
was  feverish. 

He  laughed  scornfully  at  the  idea,  but  looked 
curiously  at  himself  in  his  little  square  of  mirror, 


304 


when  he  was  dressing  for  meeting.  The  red  spots 
were  there,  burning  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  were 
brilliant.  For  a  minute  he  wondered  anxiously  if  he 
were  feverish,  if  he  were  going  to  be  ill,  and,  if  so, 
what  his  mother  and  sister  would  do.  He  even  felt 
his  own  pulse  as  he  stood  there,  and  discovered  that 
it  was  quick.  Then,  all  at  once,  his  face  in  the  glass 
looked  out  at  him  with  a  flash  as  from  some  sub- state 
of  consciousness  in  the  depths  of  his  own  being,  which 
he  could  not  as  yet  quite  fathom. 

"I  don't  know  what  ails  me,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
turned  away.  He  felt  as  he  had  when  puzzling  over 
the  unknown  quantity  in  an  algebraic  equation.  It 
was  not  until  he  was  sitting  in  meeting,  looking  for 
ward  at  Lucina's  fair  profile,  cut  in  clear  curves  like 
a  lily,  that  the  solution  came  to  him. 

"  I'm  what  they  call  in  love,"  Jerome  said  to  him 
self.  He  turned  very  pale,  and  looked  away  from 
Lucina.  He  felt  as  if  suddenly  he  had  come  to  the 
brink  of  some  dread  abyss  of  nature. 

"  That  is  why  I  want  to  go  to  see  her  to-night," 
he  thought.  "  I  won't  go  ;  I  won't !" 

Just  before  the  bell  stopped  tolling,  Doctor  Pres- 
cott's  family  went  up  the  aisle  in  stately  file,  the 
doctor  marching  ahead  with  an  imperious  state 
which  seemed  to  force  contributions  from  followers 
and  beholders,  as  if  a  peacock  were  to  levy  new  eyes 
for  his  plumage  from  all  admiration  along  his  path. 
The  doctor's  wife,  in  her  satins  and  Indian  cashmeres, 
followed  him,  moving  with  massive  gentleness,  a  long 
ostrich  plume  in  her  bonnet  tossing  softly.  Last 
came  Lawrence,  slight  and  elegantly  erect,  in  his 
city  broadcloth  and  linen,  a  figure  so  like  his  father 
as  to  seem  almost  his  double,  and  yet  with  a  dif- 


305 


ference  beyond  that  of  age,  so  palpable  that  a  child 
might  see  it — a  self-spelled  word,  with  a  different 
meaning  in  two  languages. 

The  Merritt  pew  was  just  behind  Doctor  Prescott's. 
Lawrence  had  not  been  seated  long  before  he  turned 
slightly  and  cast  a  smiling  glance  around  at  beautiful 
Lucina,  who  inclined  her  head  softly  in  response. 
Jerome  had  thus  far  never  felt  on  his  own  account 
jealousy  of  any  human  being,  he  had  also  never  been 
made  ignominious  by  self-pity ;  now,  both  experiences 
came  to  him.  Seeing  that  look  of  Lawrence  Pres 
cott's,  he  was  suddenly  filled  with  that  bitterness  of 
grudging  another  the  sweet  which  one  desires  for 
one's  self  which  is  like  no  other  bitterness  on  earth  ; 
and  he  who  had  hitherto  pitied  only  the  deprivations 
of  others  pitied  his  own,  and  so  became  the  pauper 
of  his  own  spirit.  "He  likes  her,"  he  told  himself; 
"of  course  she'll  like  him.  He's  Doctor  Prescott's 
son.  He's  got  everything  without  working  for  it — 
I've  got  nothing." 

Jerome  looked  at  neither  of  them  again.  When 
meeting  was  over,  he  strode  rapidly  down  the  aisle, 
lest  he  encounter  them. 

"  What  ailed  you  in  meeting,  Jerome  ?"  Elmira 
asked  as  they  were  going  home. 

"Nothing." 

"  You  looked  so  pale  once  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  faint  away." 

"  I  tell  you  nothing  ailed  me." 

"  You  were  dreadfully  pale,"  persisted  Elmira. 
She  was  so  happy  that  morning  that  she  had  more 
self-assertion  than  usual.  Lawrence  Prescott  had 
looked  around  at  her  three  times ;  he  had  smiled  at 
her  once,  when  he  turned  to  leave  the  pew  at  the 
20 


306 


close  of  meeting.  Jerome  had  not  noticed  that,  and 
she  had  not  noticed  Lawrence's  smile  at  Lucina. 
She  had  been  too  fluttered  to  look  up  when  Lawrence 
first  entered. 

That  afternoon  Jerome  and  Elmira  set  out  for 
meeting  again,  but  when  they  reached  the  turn  of  the 
road  Jerome  stopped. 

"  I  guess  I  won't  go  this  afternoon,"  said  he. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  Don't  you  feel  well  ?" 
Elmira  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  feel  well  enough,  but  it's  warm.  I  guess 
I  won't  go."  Elmira  stared  at  him  wonderingly. 
"Kun  along;  you'll  be  late,"  said  he,  trying  to  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  sick,  Jerome." 

"I  tell  you  I  am  not.     You'll  be  late." 

Finally  Elmira  went  on,  though  with  many  back 
ward  glances.  Jerome  sat  down  on  the  stone  wall, 
behind  a  huge  growth  of  lilac.  He  could  see  through 
a  leafy  screen  the  people  in  the  main  road  wending 
their  way  to  meeting.  He  had  suddenly  resolved  not 
to  go,  lest  he  see  Lucina  Merritt  again. 

Presently  there  was  out  in  the  main  road  a  grace 
ful  swing  of  light  skirts  and  a  gliding  of  shoulders 
and  head  which  made  his  heart  leap.  Lucina  was 
going  to  meeting  with  her  mother.  The  moment  she 
stirred  the  distance  with  dim  advances  of  motion, 
Jerome  knew  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  would 
have  known  her  shadow  among  a  nightful,  her  step 
among  a  thousand.  It  was  as  if  he  had  developed 
ultimate  senses  for  her  recognition. 

Jerome,  when  he  had  once  glimpsed  her,  looked 
away  until  he  was  sure  that  she  had  passed.  When 
the  bell  had  stopped  ringing,,  he  arose  and  climbed 
over  the  stone  wall,  then  went  across  a  field  to  the 


307 


path  skirting  the  poor-house  which  he  had  used  to 
follow  to  school. 

When  he  came  opposite  the  poor-house  in  the  hol 
low,  he  looked  down  at  it.  The  day  was  so  mild 
that  the  paupers  were  swarming  into  evidence  like 
insects.  Many  of  the  house  windows  were  wide  open, 
and  old  heads  with  palsied  nods,  like  Chinese  toys, 
appeared  in  them ;  somo  children  were  tumbling 
about  before  the  door. 

Old  Pet^;  Thomas — who  seemed  to  have  become 
crystallized,  as  it  were,  in  age  and  decrepitude,  and 
advanced  no  further  in  either — was  pottering  around 
the  garden,  eying  askant,  like  an  old  robin,  the  new 
plough  furrows.  Pauper  women  humped  their  calico 
backs  over  the  green  slopes  of  the  fields,  searching 
for  dandelion  greens,  but  not  digging,  because  it  was 
Sunday. 

Their  shrill,  plaintive  voices,  calling  to  one  anoth 
er,  came  plainly  to  Jerome.  When  he  reached  the 
barn,  there  sat  Mindy  Toggs,  as  of  old,  chanting  his 
accusatory  refrain,  "  Simon  Basset,  Simon  Basset." 

Hitherto  Jerome  had  viewed  all  this  humiliation  of 
poverty  from  a  slight  but  no  less  real  eminence  of 
benefaction ;  to-day  he  had  a  miserable  sense  of  com 
munity  with  it.  i(  It  is  not  having  what  we  want 
that  makes  us  all  paupers,"  he  told  himself,  bitterly; 
"Fm  as  much  a  pauper  as  any  of  them.  Fm  in  a 
worse  poor-house  than  the  town  of  Upham's.  I'm 
in  the  poor-house  of  life  where  the  paupers  are  all 
fed  on  stones." 

Then  suddenly,  as  he  went  on,  a  brave  spirit  of  re 
volt  seized  him.  "It  is  wanting  what  we  have  not 
that  makes  us  paupers,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  not  be 
one,  if  I  tear  my  heart  out." 


308 


Jerome  climbed  another  stone  wall  into  a  shrubby 
pasture,  and  went  across  that  to  a  pine  wood,  and 
thence,  by  devious  windings  and  turnings,  through 
£eld  and  forest,  to  his  old  woodland.  It  was  his  now; 
he  had  purchased  it  back  from  the  Squire.  Then  he 
sat  hiraself  down  and  looked  about  him  out  of  his 
silence  and  self-absorption,  and  it  was  as  if  he  had 
come  into  a  very  workshop  of  nature.  The  hum- 
mings  of  her  wheels  and  wingt>  v^e  loud  in  his  ear, 
the  fanning  of  them  cool  on  his  cheek.  The  wood 
here  was  very  light  and  young,  and  the  spring  sun 
struck  the  roots  of  the  trees. 

Little  swarms  of  gossamer  gnats  danced  in  the  sun 
lit  spaces  ;  when  he  looked  down  there  was  the  blue 
surprise  of  violets,  and  anemones  nodded  dimly  out 
of  low  shadows.  There  was  a  loud  shrilling  of  birds, 
and  the  tremulousness  of  the  young  leaves  seemed  to 
be  as  much  from  unseen  wings  as  wind.  However,  the 
wind  blew  hard  in  soft,  frequent  gusts,  and  every 
thing  was  tilting  and  bowing  and  waving. 

Jerome  looked  at  it  all,  and  it  had  a  new  meaning 
for  him.  The  outer  world  is  always  tinctured  more 
or  less  to  the  sight  by  one's  mental  states  ;  but  who 
can  say,  when  it  comes  to  outlooks  from  the  keen 
est  stresses  of  spirit,  how  impalpable  the  boundary- 
lines  between  beholder  and  object  may  grow  ?  Who 
knows  if  a  rose  does  not  really  cease  to  be,  in  its  own 
sense,  to  a  soul  in  an  extremity  of  joy  or  grief  ? 

Whatever  it  might  be  for  others,  the  spring  wood 
was  not  to-day  what  it  had  ever  been  before  to  Je- 
rorne.  All  its  shining,  and  sweetening,  and  growing 
were  so  forced  into  accord  with  himself  that  the 
whole  wood  took,  as  it  were,  the  motion  of  his  own 
soul.  Jerome  looked  at  a  fine  young  poplar-tree,  and 


309 


saw  not  a  tree  but  a  maid,  revealing  with  innocent 
helplessness  her  white  body  through  her  skirts  of 
transparent  green.  The  branches  flung  out  towards 
him  like  a  maiden's  arms,  with  shy  intent  of  caresses. 
Every  little  flower  upon  which  his  idle  gaze  fell  was 
no  flower,  but  an  eye  of  love — a  bird  called  to  his 
mate  with  the  call  of  his  own  heart.  Every  sight, 
and  sound,  and  sweetness  of  the  wood  wooed  and 
tempted  him,  with  the  reflex  motion  of  his  own  new 
ardor  of  love  and  passion.  He  had  not  gone  to  meet 
ing  lest  he  see  Lucina  Merritt  again,  and  wished  to 
drive  her  image  from  his  mind,  and  here  he  was 
peopling  his  solitude  with  symbols  of  her  which  were 
bolder  than  she,  and  made  his  hunger  worse  to  bear. 

A  childlike  wonder  was  over  him  at  the  whole. 
"Why  haven't  I  ever  felt  this  way  before?"  he 
thought.  He  recalled  all  the  young  men  he  knew 
who  had  married  during  the  last  few  years,  and 
thought  how  they  must  have  felt  as  he  felt  now,  and 
he  had  had  no  conception  of  it.  He  had  been  secret 
ly  rather  proud  that  he  had  not  encumbered  himself 
with  a  wife  and  children,  but  had  given  his  best 
strength  to  less  selfish  loves.  He  remembered  his 
scorn  of  the  school-master  and  his  adoring  girls,  and 
realized  that  his  scorn  had  been  due,  as  scorn  largely 
is,  to  ignorance.  Instead  of  contempt,  a  fierce  pity 
seized  him  for  all  who  had  given  way  to  this  great 
need  of  love,  and  yet  he  felt  strange  indignation  and 
shame  that  he  himself  had  come  into  the  common  lot. 

"  it  is  no  use ;  I  can't/'  he  said,  quite  out  loud,  and 
set  a  hard  face  against  all  the  soft  lights  and  shad 
ows  which  moved  upon  him  with  the  motion  of  his 
own  desires. 

When  he  said   "  I  can't,"  Jerome  meant  not  so 


310 


much  any  ultimate  end  of  love  as  love  itself.  He 
never  for  a  second  had  a  thought  that  he  could  marry 
Lucina  Merritt,  Squire  Eben  Merritt's  daughter,  nor 
indeed  would  if  he  could.  He  never  fancied  that 
that  fair  lady  in  her  silk  attire  could  come  to  love 
him  so  unwisely  as  to  wed  him,  and  had  he  fancied  it 
the  fierce  revolt  at  receiving  so  much  where  he  could 
give  so  little,  which  was  one  of  his  first  instincts, 
would  have  seized  him.  Never  once  he  thought  that 
he  could  marry  Lucina,  and  take  her  into  his  penury 
or  profit  by  her  riches.  All  he  resolved  against  was 
the  love  itself,  which  would  make  him  weak  with  the 
weakness  of  all  unfed  things,  and  he  made  a  stand  of 
rebellion. 

"Fm  going  to  put  her  out  of  my  mind/"  said 
Jerome,  and  stood  up  to  his  full  height  among  the 
sweet  spring  growths,  flinging  back  his  head,  as  if 
he  defied  Nature  herself,  and  went  pushing  rudely 
through  the  tremulous  outreaching  poplar  branches, 
and  elbowed  a  cluster  of  white  flowering  bushes  hud 
dling  softly  together,  like  maidens  who  must  put 
themselves  in  a  man's  way,  though  to  their  own 
shaming. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JEROME  decided  that  he  would  not  go  to  see  Lncina 
Merritt  that  Sunday  night.  He  knew  that  she  ex 
pected  him,  though  there  had  been  no  formal  agree 
ment  to  that  effect ;  he  knew  that  she  would  wonder 
at  his  non-appearance,  and,  even  though  she  were  not 
disappointed,  that  she  would  think  him  untruthful 
and  unmannerly. 

"  Let  her,"  he  told  himself,  harshly,  fairly  scourg 
ing  himself  with  his  resolution.  "  Let  her  think  just 
as  badly  of  me  as  she  can.  I'll  get  over  it  quicker." 

The  ineffable  selfishness  of  martyrdom  was  upon 
him.  He  considered  only  his  own  glory  and  pain  of 
noble  renunciation,  and  not  her  agony  of  disillusion 
and  distrust,  even  if  she  did  not  care  for  him.  That 
last  possibility  he  did  not  admit  for  a  moment.  In 
the  first  place,  though  he  had  loved  her  almost  at 
first  sight,  the  counter-reasoning  he  did  not  imagine 
could  apply  to  her.  It  had  been  as  simple  and  natural 
in  his  case  as  looking  up  at  a  new  star,  but  in  hers — 
what  was  there  in  him  to  arrest  her  sweet  eyes  and 
consideration,  at  a  moment's  notice,  if  at  all  ?  As 
well  expect  the  star  to  note  a  new  eye  of  admiration 
upon  the  earth. 

In  all  probability,  Lucina's  heart  had  turned  al 
ready  to  Lawrence  Prescott,  as  was  fitting.  She  had 
doubtless  seen  much  of  him — he  was  handsome  and 
prosperous  ;  both  families  would  be  pleased  with  such 


312 


a  match.  Jerome  faced  firmly  the  jealousy  in  his 
heart.  "You've  got  to  get  used  to  it,"  he  told  him 
self. 

He  did  not  think  much  of  his  sister  in  this  con 
nection,  hut  simply  decided  that  his  mother,  and  pos 
sibly  Elmira,  had  overrated  Lawrence  Prescott's  at 
tention,  and  jumped  too  hastily  at  conclusions.  It 
was  incredible  that  any  one  should  fancy  his  sister  in 
preference  to  Lucina.  Lawrence  had  merely  called 
in  a  friendly  way.  He  did  not  once  imagine  any  such 
feeling  on  Elmira' s  part  for  young  Prescott,  as  on  his 
for  Lucina,  and  had  at  the  time  more  impatience 
than  pity.  However,  he  resolved  to  remonstrate  if 
Lawrence  should  stay  so  late  again  with  his  sister. 

( '  She  may  think  he  means  more  than  he  does, 
girls  are  so  silly,"  he  said.  He  did  not  class  Lucina 
Merritt  among  girls. 

That  Sunday  night,  after  dark,  though  he  was  re 
solved  not  to  visit  Lucina,  he  strolled  up  the  road, 
past  her  house.  There  was  no  light  in  the  parlor. 
"She  doesn't  expect  me,  after  all,"  he  thought,  but 
with  a  great  pang  of  disappointment  rather  than  re 
lief.  He  judged  such  proceedings  from  the  rustic 
standpoint.  Always  in  Upham,  when  a  girl  expected 
a  young  man  to  come  to  spend  an  evening  with  her, 
she  lighted  the  best  parlor  and  entertained  him  there 
in  isolation  from  the  rest  of  her  family.  He  did  not 
know  how  different  a  training  in  such  respects  Lucina 
had  had.  She  never  thought,  since  he  was  not  her 
avowed  lover,  of  sequestering  herself  with  him  in  the 
best  parlor.  She  would  have  been  too  proudly  and 
modestly  fearful  as  to  what  he  might  think  of  her, 
and  she  of  herself,  and  her  parents  of  them  both. 
She  expected,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  invite  him 


SHE   EVKN    STIRRED   TO   GREET    HIM 


313 


into  the  sitting-room,  where  were  her  father  and 
mother  and  Colonel  Jack  Lamson. 

However,  she  permitted  herself  a  little  innocent 
manoeuvre,  whereby  she  might  gain  a  few  minutes  of 
special  converse  with  him  without  the  presence  of 
her  elders.  A  little  before  dusk  Lucina  seated  her 
self  on  the  front  door-step.  Her  mother  brought 
presently  a  little  shawl  and  feared  lest  she  take  cold, 
but  Lucina  said  she  should  not  remain  there  long, 
and  there  was  no  wind  and  no  dampness. 

Lucina  felt  uneasy  lest  she  be  deceiving  her  mother, 
but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  tell  her,  though  she 
did  not  fairly  know  why,  that  she  expected  a  caller. 

The  dusk  gathered  softly,  like  the  shadow  of 
brooding  wings.  She  thought  Jerome  must  come 
very  soon.  She  could  just  see  a  glimmer  of  white 
road  through  the  trees,  and  she  watched  that  eagerly, 
never  taking  her  eyes  from  it.  Now  and  then  she 
heard  an  approaching  footstep,  and  a  black  shadow 
slanted  athwart  the  road.  Her  heart  sank,  though 
she  wondered  at  it,  when  that  happened. 

When  Jerome  came  up  the  road  she  made  sure  at 
once  that  it  was  he.  She  even  stirred  to  greet  him, 
but  after  an  indefinable  pause  he  passed  on  also  ;  then 
she  thought  she  had  been  mistaken. 

He  saw  the  flutter  of  pale  drapery  on  the  door 
step,  but  never  dreamed  that  Lucina  was  actually 
there  watching  for  him.  After  a  while  he  went  back. 
Lucina,  who  was  still  sitting  there,  saw  him  again, 
but  this  time  did  not  stir,  since  he  was  going  the 
other  way. 

When,  at  half -past  eight,  she  saw  the  people  from 
the  evening  prayer-meeting  passing  on  the  road,  she 
made  sure  that  Jerome  would  not  come  that  night. 


314 


She  gave  a  soft  sigh,  leaned  her  head  back  against 
the  fluted  door-post,  and  tried  to  recall  every  word  he 
had  said  to  her,,  and  every  word  she  had  said  to  him, 
about  his  coming.  She  began  to  wonder  if  she  had 
possibly  not  been  cordial  enough,  if  she  could  have 
made  him  fear  he  would  not  be  welcome.  She  re 
peated  over  and  over,  trying  to  imagine  him  in  her 
place  as  listener,  all  she  had  said  to  him.  She  gave 
it  the.furthest  inflections  of  graciousness  and  coolness 
of  which  she  could  have  been  capable,  and  puzzled 
sorely  as  to  which  she  had  used. 

"It  makes  so  much  difference  as  to  how  you  say 
a  thing/'  thought  poor  Lucina,  "and  I  know  I  was 
afraid  lest  he  think  me  too  glad  to  have  him  come. 
I  wonder  if  I  did  not  say  enough,  or  did  not  say  it 
pleasantly." 

It  did  not  once  occur  to  Lucina  that  Jerome  might 
mean  to  slight  her,  and  might  stay  away  because  he 
wished  to  do  so.  She  had  been  so  petted  and  held 
precious  and  desirable  during  her  whole  sweet  life, 
that  she  could  scarcely  imagine  any  one  would  flout 
her,  though  so  timid  and  fearful  of  hurting  and  be 
ing  hurt  was  she  by  nature,  that  without  so  much 
love  and  admiration  she  would  have  been  a  piteous 
thing. 

She  decided  that  it  must  be  her  fault  that  Jerome 
had  not  come.  She  reflected  that  he  was  very  proud  ; 
she  remembered,  and  the  memory  stung  her  with 
something  of  the  old  pain  of  the  happening,  how  he 
would  not  take  the  cakes  when  she  was  a  child,  how  he 
would  not  take  her  money  to  buy  shoes.  She  shrank 
even  then,  remembering  the  flash  with  which  he  had 
turned  upon  her. 

"  I  did  not  say  enough,  I  was  so  afraid  of  saying 


315 


too  much,  and  that  is  why  he  has  not  come/'  she  told 
herself,  and  sadly  troubled  her  gentle  heart  thereby. 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  rolled  slowly 
down  her  fair  cheeks  as  she  sat  there  in  the  dusk. 
She  did  not  yet  feel  towards  Jerome  as  he  towards 
her.  She  had  been  too  young  and  childish  when 
she  had  known  him  for  love  to  have  taken  fast  root 
in  her  heart ;  and  she  was  not  one  to  love  fully  un 
til  she  felt  her  footing  firm,  and  her  place  secure  in  a 
lover's  affections.  Still,  who  can  tell  what  may  be 
in  the  heart  of  the  gentlest  and  most  transparent 
little  girl,  who  follows  obediently  at  her  mother's 
apron-strings  ?  In  those  old  days  when  Abigail  had 
put  her.  little  daughter  to  bed,  heard  her  say  her 
prayers  for  forgiveness  of  her  sins  of  innocence,  and 
blessings  upon  those  whom  she  loved  best,  then 
kissed  the  fair  baby  face  sunken  in  its  white  pillow, 
she  never  dreamed  what  happened  after  she  had  gone 
down-stairs.  Every  night,  for  a  long  time  after  she 
had  first  spoken  to  Jerome,  did  the  small  Lucina,  her 
heart  faintly  stirred  into  ignorant  sweetness  with  the 
first  bloom  of  young  romance,  slip  out  of  her  bed 
after  her  mother  had  gone,  kneel  down  upon  her 
childish  knees,  and  ask  another  blessing  for  Jerome 
Edwards. 

"  Please,  God,  bless  that  boy,  and  give  him  shoes 
and  gingerbread,  because  he  won't  take  them  from 
me,"  Lucina  used  to  pray,  then  climb  into  bed  again 
with  a  little  wild  scramble  of  hurry. 

Sometimes,  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  though  her 
mother  never  knew  it,  Lucina  used  to  be  thinking 
about  Jerome,  and  building  artless  air-castles  when 
she  bent  her  grave  childish  brow  over  her  task  of 
needle -work.  Sometimes,  on  the  heights  of  these 


316 


castles  reared  by  her  innocent  imagination,  she  and 
Jerome  put  arms  around  each  other's  necks  and  em 
braced  and  kissed,  and  her  mother  sat  close  by  and 
did  not  know. 

She  also  did  not  know  that  often,  when  she  had 
curled  Lucina's  hair  with  special  care  on  the  Sabbath 
day,  and  dressed  her  in  her  best  frock,  that  her  little 
daughter,  demurely  docile  under  her  maternal  hands, 
was  eagerly  wondering  if  Jerome  would  not  think  her 
pretty  in  her  finery. 

Of  course,  when  Lucina  was  grown  up,  and  went 
away  to  school,  these  childish  love-dreams  seemed 
quite  lost  and  forgotten,  in  her  awakening  under  the 
light  of  older  life.  In  those  latter  days  Lucina  had 
never  thought  about  Jerome  Edwards.  She  had 
even,  perhaps,  had  her  heart  touched,  at  least  to  a 
fancy  of  love,  by  the  admiration  of  others.  It  was 
whispered'in  the  village  that  Lucina  Merritt  had  had 
chances  already.  However,  if  she  had,  she  had 
waved  them  back  upon  the  donors  before  they  had 
been  fairly  given,  with  that  gentlest  compassion 
which  would  permit  no  need  of  itself.  Lucina,  how 
ever  her  heart  might  have  been  swerved  for  a  season 
to  its  natural  inclination  of  love,  had  never  yet  ad 
mitted  a  lover,  for,  when  it  came  to  that  last  alterna 
tive  of  open  or  closed  doors,  she  had  immediately 
been  seized  with  an  impulse  of  flight  into  her  fast 
ness  of  childhood  and  maidenhood. 

But  now,  though  she  scarcely  loved  Jerome  as  yet, 
the  power  of  her  old  dreams  was  over  her  again.  No 
one  can  over-estimate  the  tendency  of  the  human  soul 
towards  old  ways  of  happiness  which  it  has  not  fully 
explored. 

Lucina  had  begun,  almost  whether  she  would  or 


317 


not,  to  dream  again  those  old  sweet  dreams,  whose 
reality  she  had  never  yet  tasted.  Had  life  ever 
broken  in  upon  the  dreams,  had  a  word  or  a  caress 
ever  become  a  fact,  it  is  probable  she  would  have 
looked  now  upon  it  all  as  upon  some  childish  fruit  of 
delight,  whose  sweetness  she  had  proved  and  exhaust 
ed  to  insipidity.  And  this,  with  no  disparagement  to 
her,  for  the  most  faithful  heart  is  in  youth  subject 
to  growth  and  change,  and  not  free  as  to  the  exercise 
of  its  own  faithfulness. 

Lucina  that  Sunday  evening  had  put  on  one  of  her 
prettiest  muslin  frocks,  cross-barred  with  fine  pink 
flowers  set  between  the  bars.  She  tied  a  pink  ribbon 
around  her  waist,  too,  and  wore  her  morocco  shoes. 
She  looked  down  at  'the  crisp  flow  of  muslin  over 
her  knees,  and  thought  if  Jerome  had  known  that 
she  had  put  on  that  pretty  dress,  he  would  have  been 
sure  she  wanted  him  to  come.  Still,  she  would  not 
have  liked  him  to  know  she  had  taken  as  much  pains 
as  that,  but  she  wished  so  she  had  invited  him  more 
cordially  to  come. 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  and  dropped  on 
the  fair  triangle  of  neck  between  the  folds  of  her 
lace  tucker  ;  she  was  weeping  for  Jerome's  hurt,  but 
it  seemed  strangely  like  her  own.  She  was  half- 
minded  to  go  into  the  house  and  tell  her  mother  all 
about  it,  repeat  that  miserable  little  dialogue  between 
herself  and  Jerome,  which  was  troubling  her  so,  and 
let  her  decide  as  to  whether  she  had  been  lacking  in 
hospitality  or  not,  and  give  her  advice.  But  she  could 
not  quite  bring  herself  to  do  that. 

The  moon  arose  behind  the  house,  she  could  not 
see  it,  but  she  knew  it  was  there  by  the  swarming  of 
pale  lights  under  the  pine-trees,  and  the  bristling  of 


318 


their  tops  as  with  needles  of  silver.  She  heard  a 
whippoorwill  in  the  distance  calling  as  from  some 
undiscovered  country ;  there  was  an  undertone  of 
frogs  from  marshy  meadows  swelling  and  dying  in 
even  cadences  of  sound. 

Lucina's  mother  came  to  the  door  and  put  her 
hand  on  the  girl's  head.  "  You  must  come  in,"  she 
said;  "your  hair  feels  quite  damp.  You  will  take 
cold.  Your  dress  is  thin,  too." 

Lucina  rose  obediently  and  followed  her  mother 
into  the  sitting-room,  where  sat  Squire  Eben  and 
Colonel  Lamson  in  swirling  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke. 

Lucina's  cheeks  had  a  wonderful  clear  freshness 
of  red  and  white  from  the  damp  night  air.  There 
were  no  traces  of  tears  on  her  sweet  blue  eyes.  She 
came  into  the  bright  room  with  a  smiling  shrinking 
from  the  light,  which  gave  her  the  expression  of  an 
angel.  Both  men  gazed  at  her  with  a  sort  of  passion 
of  tenderest  admiration,  and  also  a  certain  sadness 
of  yearning — the  Squire  because  of  that  instinct  of 
insecurity  and  possibility  of  loss  to  which  possession 
itself  gives  rise,  the  Colonel  because  of  the  awakening 
of  old  vain  longings  in  his  own  heart. 

The  Squire  reached  out  a  hand  towards  Lucina, 
caught  her  first  by  her  flowing  skirt,  then  by  her  fair 
arm,  and  drew  her  close  to  his  side  and  pulled  down 
her  soft  face  to  his.  "  Well,  Pretty,  how  goes  the 
world  ?"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  which  had  almost  the 
catch  of  a  sob,  so  anxiously  tender  he  was  of  her,  and 
so  timid  before  his  own  delight  in  her. 

When  she  had  kissed  him  and  bade  him  good-night, 
Lucina  went  up  to  her  own  chamber  and  her  mother 
with  her. 

"  Abigail  follows  the  child,  since  she  came  home, 


319 


like  a  lien  with  one  chicken,"  the  Squire  said,  smiling 
almost  foolishly  in  his  utter  pride  of  this  beautiful 
daughter. 

The  Colonel  nodded,  frowning  gravely  over  his  pipe 
at  the  opposite  window.  "  She  makes  me  think  a 
little  of  my  wife  at  her  age,"  he  said. 

The  Squire  started.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  heard  the  Colonel  mention  his  wife.  He  sighed, 
looked  at  him,  and  hesitated  with  a  delicacy  of  reti 
cence.  "It  must  have  been  a  hard  blow,"  he  vent 
ured,  finally. 

The  Colonel  nodded. 

"  Any  children  ?"  asked  the  Squire,  after  a  little. 

"No,"  replied  Colonel  Lamson.  He  puffed  at  his 
pipe,  his  face  was  redder  than  usual.  "  Well,  Eben," 
he  said,  after  a  pause,  during  which  the  two  men 
smoked  energetically,  "I  hope  you'll  keep  her  a 
while." 

"  You  don't  think  she  looks  delicate  ?"  cried  the 
Squire,  turning  pale.  "  Her  mother  doesn't  think 
so." 

The  Colonel  laughed  heartily.  "When  a  girl 
blossoms  out  like  that  there'll  be  plenty  trying  the 
garden-gate,"  said  he. 

The  Squire  flushed  angrily.  "  Let  'em  try  it  and 
be  damned  !"  he  said. 

"You  can't  lock  the  gate,  Eben;  if  you  do,  she'll 
open  it  herself,  and  no  blame  to  her." 

"She  won't,  I  tell  you.  She's  too  young,  and 
there's  not  a  man  I  know  fit  to  tie  her  little  shoes." 

"How's  young  Prescott  ?" 

"Young  Prescott  be  damned  !" 

The  Colonel  hesitated.  He  had  seen  with  an 
eye,  sharpened  with  long  and  thorough  experience, 


320 


Jerome  Edwards  and  Lticina  the  night  of  the  party. 
"How's  that  young  Edwards  ?" 

Squire  Merritt  stared.  "The  smartest  young  fel 
low  in  this  town,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  crusty 
loyalty,  "  but  when  it  comes  to  Lucina — Lucina  !" 

"I've  liked  that  boy,  Eben,  ever  since  that  night 
in  Robinson's  store/7  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  curious 
gravity. 

"So  have  I,"  returned  the  Squire,  defiantly,  "and 
before  that — ever  since  his  father  died.  He  was  the 
bravest  little  rascal.  He's  a  hero  in  his  way.  I  was  tell 
ing  Lucina  the  other  day  what  he'd  done.  But  when 
it  comes  to  his  lifting  his  eyes  to  her,  to  her — by  the 
Lord  Harry,  Jack,  nobody  shall  have  her,  rich  or  poor, 
good  or  bad.  I  don't  care  if  he's  a  prince,  or  an  an 
gel  from  heaven.  Don't  I  know  what  men  are  ?  I'm 
going  to  keep  my  angel  of  a  child  a  while  myself.  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing,  sir,  and  that  is,  Lucina  thinks  more 
to-day  of  her  old  father  than  any  man  living ;  I'll  bet 
you  a  thousand  she  does  !"  Squire  Eben's  voice  fair 
ly  broke  with  loving  emotion  and  indignation. 

"  Can't  take  you  up,  Eben,"  said  the  Colonel, 
dryly  •  « I'd  be  too  darned  sure  to  lose,  and  I  couldn't 
pay  a  dollar  ;  but — to-morrow's  coming." 

Squire  Eben  Merritt  stood  looking  at  his  friend,  a 
frown  of  jealous  reverie  on  his  open  face.  Suddenly, 
with  no  warning,  as  if  from  a  sudden  uplifting  of  the 
spirit,  it  cleared  away.  He  laughed  out  his  great  hear 
ty  laugh.  "  Well,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  Jack,"  said  he, 
"when  the  girl  does  lose  her  heart,  though  I  hope  it 
won't  be  for  many  a  day  yet,  if  it's  to  a  good  man  that 
can  take  care  of  her  and  fight  for  her  when  he's  gone, 
her  old  father  won't  stand  in  the  way.  Lucina  al 
ways  did  have  what  she  wanted,  and  she  always  shall." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

FOE  three  weeks  after  that  Jerome  never  saw 
Lncina  at  all.  He  avoided  the  sight  of  her  in  every 
way  in  his  power.  He  went  to  Dale  and  returned 
after  dark  ;  he  stayed  away  from  meeting.  He  also 
strove  hard  to  drive,  even  the  thought  of  her,,  from 
his  mind.  He  got  out  his  algebra  and  Latin  books 
again  ;  every  minute  during  which  he  was  not  at 
work,  and  even  during  his  work,  he  tried  to  keep  his 
mind  so  full  that  Lucina's  image  could  not  enter. 
But  sometimes  he  had  a  despairing  feeling,  that  her 
image  was  so  incorporated  with  his  very  soul,  that 
he  might  as  well  strive  to  drive  away  a  part  of  him 
self. 

He  had  no  longer  any  jealousy  of  Lawrence  Pres- 
cott.  One  day  Lawrence  had  come  to  the  shop  when 
he  was  at  work,  and  asked  to  speak  to  him  a  moment 
outside.  He  told  him  how  matters  stood  between 
himself  and  Elmira.  "  I  like  your  sister,"  Lawrence 
had  said,  soberly  and  manfully.  "I  don't  see  my  way 
clear  to  marrying  her  yet,  and  I  told  her  so.  I  want 
you  to  understand  it  and  know  just  what  I  mean. 
I've  got  my  way  to  make  first.  I  don't  suppose — I 
can  count  on  much  encouragement  from  father  in 
this.  You  know  it's  no  disparagement  to  Elmira, 
Jerome.  You  know  father." 

"  Does  your  father  know  about  it  ?"  asked  Jerome. 

"I  told  mother/'  Lawrence  answered,  '-'and  she 
21 


322 


advised  me  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  father  yet. 
Mother  thought  I  had  better  go  on  and 'study  medi 
cine,  and  get  ready  to  practice,  and  perhaps  then 
father  might  think  better  of  it.  She  says  we  are 
both  young  enough  to  wait  two  or  three  years." 

Jerome,  in  his  leather  apron,  with  his  grimy  hands, 
and  face  even,  darkened  with  the  tan  of  the  leather, 
looked  half  suspiciously  and  bitterly  at  this  other 
young  man  in  his  fine  cloth  and  linen,  with  his  white 
hands  that  had  never  done  a  day's  labor.  "  You 
know  what  you  are  about  ?"  he  said,  almost  roughly. 
"  You  know  what  you  are,  you  know  what  she  is,  and 
what  we  all  are.  You  know  you  can't  separate  her 
from  anything. 

"I  don't  want  to/' cried  Lawrence,  with  a  great 
blush  of  fervor.  "I'll  be  honest  with  you,  Jerome. 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do  at  first.  I  knew  how  much 
I  thought  of  your  sister,  and  I  hoped  she  thought 
something  of  me,  but  I  knew  how  father  would  feel, 
and  I  was  dependent  on  him.  I  knew  there  was  no 
sense  in  my  marrying  Elmira,  or  any  other  girl,  against 
his  wishes,  and  starving  her." 

"There  are  others  he  would  have  you  marry," 
said  Jerome,  a  pallor  creeping  through  the  leather 
grime  on  his  face. 

Lawrence  colored.  "Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  he  said, 
simply ;  "but  it's  no  use.  I  could  never  marry  any 
other  girl  than  Elmira,  no  matter  how  rich  and  hand 
some  she  was,  nor  how  much  she  pleased  father,  even 
if  she  cared  about  me,  and  she  wouldn't." 

"  You  have  been — going  a  little  with  some  one 
else,  haven't  you  ?"  Jerome  asked,  hoarsely. 

Lawrence  stared.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I — saw  you  riding — " 


323 


"Oh/'  said  Lawrence,  laughing,  "you  mean  Fve 
been  horseback-riding  with  Lnoina  Merritt.  That 
was  nothing." 

"  It  wasn't  nothing  if  she  thought  it  was  some 
thing,"  Jerome  said,  with  a  flash  of  white  face  and 
black  eyes  at  the  other. 

Lawrence  looked  wonderingly  at  him,  laughed 
first,  then  responded  with  some  indignation,  "  Good 
Lord,  Jerome,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"What  I  mean.  My  sister  doesn't  marry  any  man 
over  another  woman's  heart  if  I  know  it." 

"  Good  Lord  !"  said  Lawrence.  "  Why,  Jerome,  do 
you  suppose  I'd  hurt  little  Lucina  ?  She  doesn't 
care  for  me  in  that  way,  she  never  would.  And  as 
for  me — why,  look  here,  Jerome,  I  never  so  much  as 
held  her  hand.  I  never  looked  at  her  even,  in  any 
way — "  Lawrence  shook  his  head  in  emphatic  re 
iteration  of  denial. 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you  that  Lucina  was  the  one 
I  meant  when  I  said  father  would  like  others  better," 
continued  Lawrence,  "but  Lucina  Merritt  would 
never  care  anything  about  me,  even  if  I  did  about 
her,  and  I  never  could.  Handsome  as  she  is,  and  I 
do  believe  she's  the  greatest  beauty  in  the  whole 
county,  she  hasn't  the  taking  way  with  her  that  El- 
mira  has — you  must  see  that  yourself,  Jerome." 

Jerome  laughed  awkwardly.  Nobody  knew  how 
much  joy  those  words  of  Lawrence  Prescott's  gave 
him,  and  how  hard  he  tried  to  check  the  joy,  because 
it  should  not  matter  to  him  except  for  Elmira's  sake. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  a  girl  with  such  sweet  ways  as 
your  sister  ?"  persisted  Lawrence. 

"  Elmira  is  a  good  girl,"  Jerome  admitted,  con 
fusedly.     He  loved  his  sister,  and  would  have  de- 


324 


fended  her  against  depreciation  with  his  life,  but  he 
compared  inwardly,  with  scorn,  her  sweet  ways  with 
Lncina's. 

1 '  There  isn't  a  girl  her  equal  in  this  world,"  cried 
her  lover,  enthusiastically.  "  Don't  you  say  so,  Je 
rome  ?  You're  her  brother,  you  know  what  she  is. 
Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that  cunning  little 
face  she  makes,  when  she  looks  up  at  you  ?" 

"  Elmira's  a  good  girl,"  Jerome  repeated. 

Lawrence  had  to  be  contented  with  that.  He  went 
on,  to  tell  Jerome  his  plans  with  regard  to  the  engage 
ment  between  himself  and  Elmira.  He  was  clear 
ly  much  under  the  wise  influence  of  his  mother. 
"Mother  says,  on  Elmira's  account  as  well  as  my 
own,  I  had  better  not  pay  regular  attention  to  her," 
he  said,  ruefully,  yet  with  submission.  "  She  says 
to  go  to  see  her  occasionally,  in  a  way  that  won't  make 
talk,  and  wait.  She's  coming  to  see  Elmira  herself. 
I've  talked  it  over  with  her,  and  she's  agreed  to  it  all, 
as,  of  course,  she  would.  Some  girls  wouldn't,  but 
she — Jerome,  I  don't  believe  when  we've  been  married 
fifty  years  that  your  sister  will  ever  have  refused  to 
do  one  single  thing  I  thought  best  for  her." 

Jerome  nodded  with  a  puzzled  and  wistful  ex 
pression,  puzzled  because  of  any  man's  so  exalt 
ing  his  sister  when  Lucina  Merritt  was  in  the  world, 
wistful  at  the  sight  of  a  joy  which  he  must  deny 
himself. 

When  he  went  home  that  night  he  saw  by  the  way 
his  mother  and  sister  looked  up  when  he  entered  the 
room  that  they  were  wondering  if  Lawrence  had  told 
him  the  news,  and  what  he  thought  of  it.  Elmira's 
face  was  so  eager  that  he  did  not  wait.  "  Yes,  I've 
seen  him,"  he  said, 


825 


Elmira  blushed,  and  quivered,,  and  bent  closer  over 
her  work. 

"What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  said  his  mother,  with  a 
kind  of  tentative  triumph. 

"You  don't  know  now  what  Doctor  Prescott  will 
say/'  said  Jerome. 

"  Lawrence  says  his  mother  thinks  his  father  will 
come  round  by-and-by,  when  he  gets  started  in  his 
profession  ;  he  always  liked  Elmira." 

"Well,  there's  one  thing, "said  Jerome,  "and  that 
is — of  course  you  and  Elmira  are  not  under  my  con 
trol,  but  no  sister  of  mine  will  ever  enter  any  family 
where  she  is  not  welcome,  with  my  consent." 

"  Lawrence  says  he  knows  his  father  Avill  be  willing 
by-and-by,"  said  Elmira,  tremulously. 

"You  know  Doctor  Prescott  always  liked  your 
sister,"  said  Ann  Edwards. 

"  Well,  if  he  likes  her  well  enough  to  have  her 
marry  his  son,  it's  all  right,"  said  Jerome,  and  went 
out  to  wash  his  hands  and  face  before  supper. 

That  night  Lawrence  stole  in  for  a  short  call. 
When  Elmira  came  up -stairs  after  he  had  gone, 
Jerome,  who  had  been  reading  in  his  room,  opened 
his  door  and  called  her  in. 

"Look  here,  Elmira,"  said  he,  "I  don't  want  you 
to  think  I  don't  want  you  to  be  happy.  I  do." 

Elmira  held  out  her  arms  towards  him  with  an  in 
voluntary  motion.  "Oh,  Jerome  !"  she  whispered. 

The  brother  and  sister  had  always  been  chary  of 
caresses,  but  now  Jerome  drew  Elmira  close,  pressed 
her  little  head  against  his  shoulder,  and  let  her  cry 
there. 

"Don't,  Elmira,"  he  said,  at  length,  brokenly, 
smoothing  her  hair.  "You  know  brother  wants 


326 


you  to  be  happy.  You  are  the  only  little  sister  he's 
got." 

"  Oh,  Jerome,  I  couldn't  help  it !"  sobbed  Elmira. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't/' said  Jerome.  "Don't 
cry — I'll  work  hard  and  save,  and  maybe  I  can  get 
enough  money  to  give  you  a  house  and  furniture 
when  you're  married,  then  you  won't  be  quite  so  be 
holden." 

"  But  you'll — get  married  yourself,  Jerome/'  whis 
pered  Elmira,  who  had  built  a  romance  about  her 
brother  and  Lucina  after  the  night  of  the  party. 

"No,  I  shall  never  get  married  myself,"  said  Jerome, 
"all  my  money  is  for  my  sister."  He  laughed,  but 
that  night  after  Elmira  was  fast  asleep  in  her  cham 
ber  across  the  way,  he  lay  awake  tasting  to  the  fullest 
his  own  cup  of  bitterness  from  its  contrast  with  an 
other's  sweet. 

The  longing  to  see  Lucina,  to  have  only  the  sight 
of  her  dear  beautiful  face  to  comfort  him,  grew  as  the 
weeks  went  on,  but  he  would  not  yield  to  it.  He  had, 
however,  to  reckon  against  odds  which  he  had  not 
anticipated,  and  they  were  the  innocent  schemes  of 
Lucina  herself.  She  had  hoped  at  first  that  his  call 
was  only  deferred,  that  he  would  come  to  see  her  of 
his  own  accord,  but  she  soon  decided  that  he  would 
not,  and  that  all  the  advances  must  be  from  herself, 
since  she  was  undoubtedly  at  fault.  She  had  fully 
resolved  to  make  amends  for  any  rudeness  and  lack 
of  cordiality  of  which  she  might  have  been  guilty,  at 
the  first  opportunity  she  should  have.  She  planned 
to  speak  to  him  going  home  from  meeting,  or  on 
some  week  day  on  the  village  street  —  she  had  her 
little  speech  all  ready,  but  the  chance  to  deliver  it  did 
not  come. 


327 


But  when  she  went  to  meeting  Sunday  after  Sun 
day,  dressed  in  her  prettiest,  looking  like  something 
between  a  rose  and  an  angel,  and  no  Jerome  was  there 
for  her  soft  backward  glances,  and  when  she  never 
met  him  when  she  was  alone  on  the  village  street, 
she  grew  impatient. 

About  this  time  Lucina's  father  bought  her  a  beau 
tiful  little  white  horse,  like  the  milk-white  palfrey 
of  a  princess  in  a  fairy  tale,  and  she  rode  every  day 
over  the  county.  Usually  Squire  Eben  accompanied 
her  on  a  tall  sorrel  which  had  been  in  his  possession 
for  years,  but  still  retained  much  youthful  fire.  The 
sorrel  advanced  with  long  lopes  and  fretted  at  being 
reined  to  suit  the  pace  of  the  little  white  horse,  and 
Squire  Eben  had  disliked  riding  from  his  youth,  un 
less  at  a  hard  gallop  with  gun  on  saddle,  towards  a 
distant  lair  of  game.  Both  he  and  the  tall  sorrel 
rebelled  as  to  their  nerves  and  muscles  at  this  lady 
like  canter  over  smooth  roads,  but  the  Squire  would 
neither  permit  his  tender  Lucina  to  ride  fast,  lest  she 
get  thrown  and  hurt,  or  to  ride  alone. 

Lawrence  Prescott  never  asked  her  to  ride  with 
him  in  those  days.  Lucina  in  her  blue  habit,  with  a 
long  blue  plume  wound  round  her  hat  and  floating  be 
hind  in  the  golden  blowing  of  her  curls,  on  her  pretty 
white  horse,  and  the  great  booted  Squire  on  his  sorrel, 
to  her  side,  reined  back  with  an  ugly  strain  on  the 
bits,  were  a  frequent  spectacle  for  admiration  on  the 
county  roads.  No  other  girl  in  Upham  rode. 

It  was  one  day  when  she  was  out  riding  with  her 
father  that  Lucina  made  her  opportunity  to  speak 
with  Jerome.  Now  she  had  her  horse,  Jerome  was 
finding  it  harder  to  avoid  the  sight  of  her.  The  night 
before,  returning  from  Dale  by  moonlight,  he  had 


heard  the  quick  tramp  of  horses'  feet  behind  him, 
and  had  had  a  glimpse  of  Lucina  and  her  father 
when  they  passed.  Lucina  turned  in  her  saddle,  and 
her  moon-white  face  looked  over  her  shoulder  at 
Jerome.  She  nodded ;  Jerome  made  a  stiff  inclina 
tion,  holding  himself  erect  under  his  load  of  shoes. 
Lucina  was  too  shy  to  ask  her  father  to  stop  that  she 
might  speak  to  Jerome.  However,  before  they 
reached  home  she  said  to  her  father,  in  a  sweet  little 
contained  voice,  "  Does  he  go  to  Dale  every  night, 
father  ?" 

"  Who  ?"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Jerome  Edwards." 

' ( No,  I  guess  not  every  day ;  not  more  than  once  in 
three  days,  when  the  shoes  are  finished.  He  told  me 
so,  if  I  remember  rightly." 

"  It  is  a  long  walk,"  said  Lucina. 

"It  won't  hurt  a  young  fellow  like  him,"  the 
Squire  said,  laughing ;  but  he  gave  a  curious  look  at 
his  daughter.  "What  set  you  thinking  about  that, 
Pretty  ?"  he  asked. 

"  We  passed  him  back  there,  didn't  we,  father  ?" 

"  Sure  enough,  guess  we  did,"  said  the  Squire,  and 
they  trotted  on  over  the  moonlit  road. 

"  Looks  just  like  the*  back  of  that  dapple-gray  I 
had  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  Pretty,"  said  the 
Squire,  pointing  with  his  whip  at  the  net-work  of 
lights  and  shadows. 

He  never  thought  of  any  significance  in  the  fact 
that  for  the  two  following  days  Lucina  preferred  rid 
ing  in  the  morning  in  another  direction,  and  on  the 
third  day  preferred  riding  after  sundown  on  the  road 
to  Dale.  He  also  thought  nothing  of  it  that  they 
passed  Jerome  Edwards  again,  and  that  shortly  after- 


329 


wards  Lucina  professed  herself  tired  of  riding  so  fast, 
though  it  had  not  been  fast  for  him,  and  reined  her 
little  white  horse  into  a  walk.  The  sorrel  plunged 
and  jerked  his  head  obstinately  when  the  Squire  tried 
to  reduce  his  pace  also. 

"  Please  ride  on,  father,"  said  Lucina ;  her  voice 
sounded  like  a  little  silver  flute  through  the  Squire's 
bass  whoas. 

"And  leave  you?  I  guess  not.  Whoa,  Dick; 
whoa,  can't  ye  !" 

"  Please,  father,  Dick  frightens  me  when  he  does 
so." 

"Can't  you  ride  a  little  faster,  Pretty  ?  Whoa,  I 
tell  ye  I" 

"In  just  a  minute,  father,  I'll  catch  up  with  you. 
Oh,  father,  please  !  Suppose  Dick  should  frighten 
Fanny,  and  make  her  run,  I  could  never  hold  her. 
Please,  father !" 

The  Squire  had  small  choice,  for  the  sorrel  gave  a 
fierce  plunge  ahead  and  almost  bolted.  "  Follow  as 
fast  as  you  can,  Pretty !"  he  shouted  back. 

There  was  a  curve  in  the  road  just  ahead,  the 
Squire  was  out  of  sight  around  it  in  a  flash.  Lucina 
reined  her  horse  in,  and  waited  as  motionless  as  a 
little  equestrian  statue.  She  did  not  look  around 
for  a  moment  or  two — she  hoped  Jerome  would  over 
take  her  without  that.  A  strange  terror  was  over  her, 
but  he  did  not. 

Finally  she  looked.  He  was  coming  very  slowly ; 
he  scarcely  seemed  to  move,  and  was  yet  quite  a  dis 
tance  behind.  "I  can't  wait,"  Lucina  thought,  pite- 
ously.  She  turned  her  horse  and  rode  back  to  him. 
He  stopped  when  she  came  alongside.  "Good-even 
ing,"  said  she,  tremulously. 


330 


"Good-evening,"  said  Jerome.  He  made  such  an 
effort  to  speak  that  his  voice  sounded  like  a  harsh 
trumpet. 

Lucina  forgot  her  pretty  little  speech.  "I  wanted 
to  say  that  I  was  sorry  if  I  offended  you/'  she  said, 
faintly. 

Jerome  had  no  idea  what  she  meant ;  he  could,  in 
deed,  scarcely  take  in,  until  later,  thinking  of  them, 
the  sense  of  her  words.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  made 
only  an  inarticulate  jumble  of  sounds. 

"I  hope  you  will  pardon  me,"  said  Lucina. 

Jerome  fairly  gasped.     He  bowed  again,  stiffly. 

Lucina  said  no  more.  She  rode  on  to  join  her 
father.  That  night,  after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  she 
cried  a  long  while.  She  reflected  how  she  had  never 
even  referred  to  the  matter  in  question,  in  her  suit 
for  pardon. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

LUCIRA  in  those  days  was  occupied  with  some 
pieces  of  embroidery  in  gay  wools  on  cloth.  There 
were  varied  designs  of  little  dogs  with  bead  eyes, 
baskets  of  flowers,  wreaths,  and  birds  on  sprays. 
She  had  an  ambition  to  embroider  a  whole  set  of  par 
lor-chairs,  as  some  young  ladies  in  her  school  had 
done,  and  there  was  in  her  mind  a  dim  and  scarcely 
admitted  fancy  that  these  same  chairs  might  add 
state  to  some  future  condition  of  hers. 

Lucina  had  always  innocently  taken  it  for  granted 
that  she  should  some  day  be  married  and  have  a 
house  of  her  own,  and  very  near  her  father's.  When 
she  had  begun  the  embroidery  she  had  furnished  a 
shadowy  little  parlor  of  a  shadowy  house  with  the 
fine  chairs,  and  admitted  at  the  parlor  door  a  dim 
and  stately  presence,  so  shadowy  to  her  timid  maiden 
fancy  that  there  was  scarcely  a  suggestion  of  sub 
stance. 

Now,  however,  the  shadow  seemed  to  deepen  and 
clear  in  outline.  Lucina  fell  to  wondering  if  Jerome 
Edwards  thought  embroidered  chairs  pretty  or  silly. 
Often  she  would  pause  in  her  counting  and  setting 
even  cross-barred  stitches,  lean  her  soft  cheek  on  her 
slender  white  hand,  and  sit  so  a  long  while,  with  her 
fair  curls  drooping  over  her  gentle,  brooding  face. 
Her  mother  often  noticed  her  sitting  so,  and  thought, 
partly  from  quick  maternal  intuition,  partly  from 


332 


knowledge  gained  from  her  own  experience,  that  if 
it  were  possible,  she  should  judge  her  to  have  had 
her  heart  turned  to  some  maiden  fancy.  But  she 
knew  that  Lucina  had  cared  for  none  of  her  lovers 
away  from  home,  and  at  home  there  were  none 
feasible,  unless,  perhaps,  Lawrence  Prescott.  Law 
rence  had  not  been  to  see  her  lately ;  could  it  be 
possible  the  child  was  hurt  by  it  ?  Abigail  sounded 
cautiously  the  depths  of  her  daughter's  heart,  and 
found  to  her  satisfaction  no  image  of  Lawrence 
Prescott  therein. 

"Lawrence  is  a  good  boy,"  said  Lucina  ;  "it  is  a 
pity  he  is  no  taller,  and  looks  so  like  his  father ;  but 
he  is  very  good.  I  do  think,  though,  he  might  go  to 
ride  with  me  sometimes  and  save  father  from  going. 
I  would  rather  have  father,  but  I  know  he  does  not 
like  to  ride.  Lawrence  had  been  planning  to  go  to 
ride  with  me  all  through  the  summer.  It  was 
strange  he  stopped — was  it  not,  mother  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  is  busy.  I  saw  him  driving  with  his 
father  the  other  day,"  said  Abigail. 

"Well,  perhaps  he  is,"  assented  Lucina,  easily. 
Then  she  asked  advice  as  to  this  or  that  shade  in  the 
ears  of  the  little  poodle-dog  which  she  was  embroid 
ering. 

"Lucina  is  as  transparent  as  glass,"  her  mother 
thought.  "  She  could  never  speak  of  Lawrence 
Prescott  in  that  way  if  she  were  in  love  with  him, 
and  there  is  no  one  else  in  town." 

Abigail  Merritt,  acute  and  tender  mother  as  she 
was,  settled  into  the  belief  that  her  daughter  was 
merely  given  to  those  sweetly  melancholy  and  won 
dering  reveries  natural  to  a  maiden  soul  upon  the 
threshold  of  discovery  of  life.  "I  used  to  do  just 


so,  busy  as  I  always  was,  before  Eben  came,"  she 
thought,  with  a  little  pang  of  impatient  shame  for 
herself  and  her  daughter  that  they  must  yield  to 
such  necessities  of  their  natures.  Abigail  Merritt 
had  never  been  a  rebel,  indeed,  but  there  had  been 
unruly  possibilities  within  her.  She  remembered 
well  what  she  had  told  her  mother  when  her  vague 
dreams  had  ended  and  Eben  Merritt  had  come 
a-wooing.  "  I  like  him,  and  I  suppose,  because  I  like 
him  I've  got  to  marry  him,  but  it  makes  me  mad, 
mother." 

Looking  now  at  this  daughter  of  hers,  with  her  ex 
ceeding  beauty  and  delicacy,  which  a  touch  would 
seem  to  profane  and  soil  as  much  as  that  of  a  flower 
or  butterfly,  she  had  an  impulse  to  hide  her  away 
and  cover  her  always  from  the  sight  and  handling  of 
all  except  maternal  love.  She  took  much  comfort  in 
the  surety  that  there  was  as  yet  no  definite  lover  in 
Lucina's  horizon.  She  did  not  reflect  that  no  human 
soul  is  too  transparent  to  be  clouded  to  the  vision  of 
others,  and  its  own,  by  the  sacred  intimacy  with  its 
own  desires.  Her  daughter,  looking  up  at  her  with 
limpid  blue  eyes,  replying  to  her  interrogation  with 
sweet  readiness,  like  a  bird  that  would  pipe  to  a  call, 
was  as  darkly  unknown  to  her  as  one  beyond  the 
grave.  She  could  not  even  spell  out  clearly  her 
hieroglyphics  of  life  with  the  key  in  her  own  nature. 

The  day  after  Lucina  had  met  Jerome  on  the  Dale 
road,  and  had  failed  to  set  the  matter  right,  she  took 
her  embroidery-work  over  to  her  Aunt  Camilla's.  She 
had  resolved  upon  a  plan  which  was  to  her  quite  des 
perate,  involving,  as  it  did,  some  duplicity  of  manoeu 
vre  which  shocked  her. 

The  afternoon  was  a  warm  one,  and  she  easily  in- 


334 


duced,  as  she  had  hoped,  her  Aunt  Camilla  to  sit  in 
the  summer-house  in  the  garden.  Everything  was 
very  little  changed  from  that  old  summer  afternoon 
of  years  ago.  If  Miss  Camilla  had  altered,  it  had 
been  with  such  a  fine  conservation  of  general  effect, 
in  spite  of  varying  detail,  that  the  alteration  was 
scarcely  visible.  She  wore  the  same  softly  spreading 
lilac  gown,  she  wrote  on  her  portfolio  with  the  same 
gold  pencil  presumably  the  same  thoughts.  If  her 
softly  drooping  curls  were  faded  and  cast  lighter 
shadows  over  thinner  cheeks,  one  could  more  easily 
attribute  the  dimness  and  thinness  to  the  lack  of 
one's  own  memory  than  to  change  in  her. 

The  garden  was  the  same,  sweetening  with  the  ar 
dor  of  pinks  and  mignonette,  the  tasted  breaths  of 
thyme  and  lavender,  like  under-thoughts  of  reason, 
and  the  pungent  evidence  of  box. 

Lucina  looked  out  of  the  green  gloom  of  the  sum 
mer-house  at  the  same  old  carnival  of  flowers,  swarm 
ing  as  lightly  as  if  untethered  by  stems,  upon  wings 
of  pink  and  white  and  purpling  blue,  blazing  out  to 
sight  as  with  a  very  rustle  of  color  from  the  hearts 
of  green  bushes  and  the  sides  of  tall  green -sheathed 
stalks,  in  spikes  and  plumes,  an-d  soft  rosettes  of  silken 
bloom.  Even  the  yellow  cats  of  Miss  Camilla's  fa 
mous  breed,  inheriting  the  love  of  their  ancestors  for 
following  the  steps  of  their  mistress,  came  presently 
between  the  box  rows  with  the  soft,  sly  glide  of  the 
jungle,  and  established  themselves  for  a  siesta  on  the 
arbor  bench. 

Lucina  was  glad  that  it  was  all  so  like  what  it  had 
been,  even  to  the  yellow  cats,  seeming  scarcely  more 
than  a  second  rendering  of  a  tune,  and  it  made  it 
possible  for  her  to  open  truthfully  and  easily  upon 


335 


her  plan.  She  herself,  whose  mind  was  so  changed 
from  its  old  childish  habit  of  simple  outlook  and 
waiting  into  personal  effort  for  its  own  ends,  and 
whose  body  was  so  advanced  in  growth  of  grace,  was 
perhaps  the  most  altered  of  all.  However,  there  was 
much  of  the  child  left  in  her. 

"  Aunt  Camilla,"  said  she,  in  almost  the  same  tone 
of  timid  deprecation  which  the  little  Lucina  of  years 
before  might  have  used. 

Camilla  looked  up,  with  gentle  inquiry,  from  her 
portfolio. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Lucina,  bending  low 
over  her  embroidery  that  her  aunt  might  not  see  the 
pink  confusion  of  her  face,  which  she  could  not,  after 
all,  control,  "  how  I  came  here  and  spent  the  after 
noon,  once,  years  ago  ;  do  you  remember  ?" 

"  You  came  here  often — did  you  not,  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucina,  "but  that  once  in  particular, 
Aunt  Camilla  ?" 

"I  fear  I  do  not  remember,  dear,"  said  Camilla, 
whose  past  had  been  for  years  a  peaceful  monotone 
as  to  her  own  emotions,  and  had  so  established  a 
similar  monotone  of  memory. 

"  Don't  you  remember,  Aunt  Camilla  ?  I  came  first 
with  a  stent  to  knit  on  a  garter,  and  we  sat  out  here. 
Then  the  yellow  cats  came,  and  father  had  been  fish 
ing,  and  he  brought  some  speckled  trout,  and — then 
—the  Edwards  boy — r' 

"  Oh,  the  little  boy  I  had  to  weed  my  garden  !  A 
good  little  boy,"  Camilla  said. 

Lucina  winced  a  little.  She  did  not  quite  like  Je 
rome  to  be  spoken  of  in  that  mildly  reminiscent  way. 
"He's  grown  up  now,  you  know,  Aunt  Camilla," 
said  she. 


336 


f '  Yes,  my  dear,  and  he  is  as  good  a  young  man  as 
he  was  a  boy,  I  hear." 

"  Father  speaks  very  highly  of  him,"  said  Lucina, 
with  a  soft  tremor  and  mounting  of  color,  to  which 
her  aunt  responded  sensitively. 

People  said  that  Camilla  Merritt  had  never  had  a 
lover,  but  the  same  wind  can  strike  the  same  face  of 
the  heart. 

"I  have  heard  him  very  highly  spoken  of,"  she 
agreed;  and  there  was  a  betraying  quiver  in  her 
voice  also. 

"  We  had  plum-cake,  and  tea  in  the  pink  cups — 
don't  you  remember,  Aunt  Camilla  ?" 

' '  So  many  times  we  had  them — did  we  not,  dear  ?" 

"Yes,  but  that  one  time  ?" 

"  I  fear  that  I  cannot  distinguish  that  time  from 
the  others,  dear." 

There  was  a  pause.  Lucina  took  a  few  more  stitches 
on  her  embroidery.  Miss  Camilla  poised  her  gold 
pencil  reflectively  over  her  portfolio.  "Aunt  Ca 
milla,"  said  Lucina  then. 

"Well,  dear?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would  be 
to  have  another  little  tea-party,  here  in  the  arbor ; 
would  you  have  any  objections  ?" 

"My  dear  Lucina !"  cried  Miss  Camilla,  and  looked 
at  her  niece  with  gentle  delight  at  the  suggestion. 

The  early  situation  was  not  reversed,  for  Lucina 
still  admired  and  revered  her  aunt  as  the  realization 
of  her  farthest  ideal  of  ladyhood,  but  Miss  Camilla 
fully  reciprocated.  The  pride  in  her  heart  for  her 
beautiful  niece  was  stronger  than  any  which  she  had 
ever  felt  for  herself.  She  pictured  Lucina  instead 
of  herself  to  her  fancy;  she  seemed  to  almost  see 


337 


Lucina's  face  instead  of  her  own  in  her  looking-glass. 
When  it  came  to  giving  Lucina  a  pleasure,  she  gave 
twofold. 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt  Camilla/'  said  Lucina,,  delight 
edly,  and  yet  with  a  little  confusion.  She  felt  very 
guilty — still,  how  could  she  tell  her  aunt  all  her  rea 
sons  for  wishing  the  party  ? 

"  Shall  we  have  your  father  and  mother,  or  only 
young  people,  dear  ?"  asked  Miss  Camilla. 

"  Only  young  people,  I  think,  aunt.  Mother 
comes  any  time,  and  as  for  father,  he  would  rather 
go  fishing." 

"  You  would  like  the  Edwards  boy,  since  he  came 
so  long  ago  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  aunt." 

"  He  is  poor,  and  works  hard,  and  has  not  been  in 
fine  company  much,  I  presume,  but  that  is  nothing 
against  him.  He  will  enjoy  it  all  the  more,  if  he  is 
not  too  shy.  You  do  not  think  he  is  too  shy  to  enjoy 
it,  dear  ?" 

"I  should  never  have  known  from  his  manners  at 
my  party  that  he  had  not  been  in  fine  company  all 
his  life.  He  is  not  like  the  other  young  men  in 
Upham,"  protested  Lucina,  with  a  quick  rise  of 
spirit. 

"  Well,  I  used  to  hear  your  grandfather  say  that 
there  are  those  who  can  suit  their  steps  to  any  gait," 
her  aunt  said.  "I  understand  that  he  is  a  very  good 
young  man.  We  will  have  him  and — " 

"1  think  his  sister,"  said  Lucina;  "she  is  such  a 
pretty  girl — the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village,  and  it 
will  please  her  so  to  be  asked." 

1 '  The  Edwards  boy  and  his  sister,  and  who  else  ?" 

"  No  one  else,  I  think,  Aunt  Camilla,  except  Law- 

22 


338 


rence  Prescott.  There  will  not  be  room  for  more  in 
the  arbor." 

Lucina  did  not  blush  when  she  said  Lawrence 
Prescott,  but  her  aunt  did.  She  had  often  romanced 
about  the  two.  "Well,  dear,"  she  said,  "  when  shall 
we  have  the  tea-party  ?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow,  please,  Aunt  Camilla." 

"That  will  give 'Liza  time  to  make  cake,"  said 
Camilla.  te  I  will  send  the  invitations  to-morrow, 
dear." 

"'Liza  will  be  too  busy  cake-making  to  run  on  er 
rands/'  said  Lucina,  though  her  heart  smote  her,  for 
this  was  where  the  true  gist  of  her  duplicity  came  in; 
"  write  them  now,  Aunt  Camilla,  and  give  them  to 
me.  I  will  see  that  they  are  delivered." 

The  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Lucina,  being  out 
riding,  passed  Doctor  Prescott's  house,  and  called  to 
Jake  Noyes  in  the  yard  to  take  Miss  Camilla's  lit 
tle  gilt-edged,  lavender-scented  note  of  invitation. 
"  Please  give  this  to  Mr.  Lawrence,"  said  she,  pretti 
ly,  and  rode  on.  The  other  notes  were  in  her  pocket, 
but  she  had  not  delivered  them  when  she  returned 
home  at  sunset. 

"I  am  going  to  run  over  to  Elmira  Edwards  and 
carry  them,"  she  told  her  mother  after  supper,  and 
pleaded  that  she  would  like  the  air  when  Mrs.  Mer- 
ritt  suggested  that  Hannah  be  sent. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Jerome  Edwards,  coming 
home  about  nine  o'clock  that  night,  noticed,  the  mo 
ment  he  opened  the  outer  door,  the  breath  of  roses 
and  lavender,  and  a  subtle  thrill  of  excitement  and 
almost  fear  passed  over  him.  "Who  is  it?"  he 
thought.  He  listened,  and  heard  voices  in  the  par 
lor.  He  wanted  to  pass  the  door,  but  he  could  not. 


339 


He  opened  it  and  peered  in,  white-faced  and  wide- 
eyed,  and  there  was  Lucina  with  his  mother  and  sis 
ter. 

Mrs.  Edwards  and  Elmira  looked  nervously  flushed 
and  elated  ;  there  were  bright  spots  on  their  cheeks, 
their  eyes  shone.  On  the  table  were  Miss  Camilla's 
little  gilt-edged  missives.  Lucina  was  somewhat 
pale,  and  her  face  had  been  furtively  watchful  and 
listening.  When  Jerome  opened  the  door,  her  look 
changed  to  one  of  relief,  which  had  yet  a  certain  ter 
ror  and  confusion  in  it.  She  rose  at  once,  bowed 
gracefully,  until  the  hem  of  her  muslin  skirt  swept 
the  floor,  and  bade  Jerome  good -evening.  As  for 
Jerome,  he  stood  still,  looking  at  her. 

"  Why,  J'rome,  don't  you  see  who  'tis  ?"  cried  his 
mother,  in  her  sharp,  excited  voice,  yet  with  an  en 
couraging  smile — the  smile  of  a  mother  who  would 
put  a  child  upon  its  best  behavior  for  the  sake  of  her 
own  pride. 

Jerome  murmured,  "Good-evening."  He  made  a 
desperate  grasp  at  his  self-possession,  but  scarcely 
succeeded. 

Lucina  pulled  a  little  fleecy  white  wrap  over  her 
head,  and  immediately  took  leave.  Jerome  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass.  Elmira  followed  her  to  the 
outer  door,  and  his  mother  called  him  in  a  sharp 
whisper,  e<  J'rome,  come  here." 

When  he  had  reached  his  mother's  side  she 
pinched  his  arm  hard.  "  Go  home  with  her,"  she 
whispered. 

Jerome  stared  at  her. 

"  Do  ye  hear  what  I  say  ?     Go  home  with  her." 

' '  I  can't,"  he  almost  groaned  then. 

"  Can't  ?     Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?     What 


340 


ails  ye  ?  Lettin'  of  a  lady  like  her  go  home  all  alone 
this  dark  night." 

Elmira  ran  hack  into  the  parlor.  "Oh,  Jerome, 
you  ought  to  go  with  her,  you  ought  to  I"  she  cried, 
softly.  "It's  real  dark.  She  felt  it,  I  know.  She 
looked  real  sober.  Run  after  her,  quick,  Jerome." 

"  When  she  came  to  invite  you  to  a  party,  too  I" 
said  Mrs.  Edwards,  but  Jerome  did  not  hear  that,  he 
was  out  of  the  house  and  hurrying  up  the  road  after 
Lucina. 

She  had  not  gone  far.  Jerome  did  not  know  what 
to  say  when  he  overtook  her,  so  he  said  nothing — he 
merely  walked  along  by  her  side.  A  great  anger  at 
himself,  that  he  had  almost  let  this  tender  and  beau 
tiful  creature  go  out  alone  in  the  night  and  the  dark, 
was  over  him,  but  he  knew  not  what  to  say  for  ex 
cuse. 

He  wondered,  pitifully,  if  she  were  so  indignant  that 
she  did  not  like  him  to  walk  home  with  her  now. 
But  in  a  moment  Lucina  spoke,  and  her  voice, 
though  a  little  tremulous,  was  full  of  the  utmost 
sweetness  of  kindness. 

"  I  fear  you  are  too  tired  to  walk  home  with  me," 
she  said,  "and  I  am  not  afraid  to  go  by  myself." 

"No,  it  is  too  dark  for  you  to  go  alone  ;  I  am  not 
tired,"  replied  Jerome,  quickly,  and  almost  roughly, 
to  hide  the  tumult  of  his  heart. 

But  Lucina  did  not  understand  that.  "I  am  not 
afraid,"  she  repeated,  in  a  little,  grieved,  and  anxious 
way;  "please  leave  me  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  I  am 
truly  not  afraid." 

"No,  it  is  too  dark  for  you  to  go  alone,"  said  Je 
rome,  hoarsely,  again.  It  came  to  him  that  he  should 
offer  her  his  arm,  but  he  dared  not  trust  his  voice 


341 


for  that.  He  reached  down,  caught  her  hand,  and 
thrust  it  through  his  arm,  thinking,  with  a  thrill  of 
terror  as  he  did  so,  that  she  would  draw  it  away,  but 
she  did  not. 

She  leaned  so  slightly  on  his  arm  that  it  seemed 
more  the  inclination  of  spirit  than  matter,  but  still 
she  accepted  his  support  and  walked  along  easily  at 
his  side.  So  far  from  her  resenting  his  summary 
taking  of  her  hand,  she  was  grateful,  with  the  hum 
ble  gratitude  of  the  primeval  woman  for  the  kind 
ness  of  a  master  whom  she  has  made  wroth. 

Lucina  had  attributed  Jerome's  stiffness  at  sight 
of  her,  and  his  delay  in  accompanying  her  home,  to 
her  unkind  treatment  of  him.  Now  he  showed  signs 
of  forgiveness,  her  courage  returned.  When  they 
had  passed  the  turn  of  the  road,  and  were  on  the 
main  street,  she  spoke  quite  sweetly  and  calmly. 

"  There  is  something  I  have  been  wanting  to  say 
to  you,"  said  she.  "I  tried  to  say  it  the  other  night 
when  I  was  riding  and  met  you,  but  I  did  not  suc 
ceed  very  well.  What  I  wanted  to  say  was — I  fear 
that  when  you  suggested  coming  to  see  me,  the  Sun 
day  night  after  my  party,  I  did  not  seem  cordial 
enough,  and  make  you  understand  that  I  should  be 
very  happy  to  see  you,  and  that  was  why  you  did  not 
come." 

"  0' — h  !"  said  Jerome,  with  a  long-drawn  breath 
of  wonder  and  despair.  He  had  been  thinking  that 
he  had  offended  her  beyond  forgiveness  and  of  his 
own  choice,  and  she,  with  her  sweet  humility,  was 
twice  suing  him  for  pardon. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  Lucina  said,  softly. 

"  That  was  not  the  reason  why  I  did  not,"  Jerome 
gasped. 


342 


"  Then  you  were  not  hurt  ?" 

"  No  ;  I — thought  you  spoke  as  if  you  would  like 
to  have  me  come — " 

"  Perhaps  you  were  ill, "Lucina  said,  hesitatingly. 

"No,  I  was  not.      I  did  not — " 

"Oh,  it  was  not  because  you  did  not  want  to 
come  !"  Lucina  cried  out,  quickly,  and  yet  with  ex 
ceeding  gentleness  and  sad  wonder,  that  he  should 
force  such  a  suspicion  upon  her. 

"No,  it  was  not.  I — wanted  to  come  more  than — 
I  wanted  to  come,  but — I  did  not  think  it — best." 
Jerome  said  the  last  so  defiantly  that  poor  Lucina 
started. 

"  But  it  was  because  of  nothing  I  had  said,  and  it 
was  not  because  you  did  not  want  to?"  she  said,  pit- 
eously. 

"  No,"  said  Jerome.  Then  he  said,  again,  as  if  he 
found  strength  in  the  repetition.  "  I  did  not  think 
it  best." 

"  I  thought  you  were  coming  that  night,"  Lucina 
said,  with  scarcely  the  faintest  touch  of  reproach  but 
with  more  of  wonder.  Why  should  he  not  have 
thought  it  best  ? 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Jerome.  "I  wanted  to  tell 
you,  but  I  had  no  reason  but  that  to  give,  and  I — 
thought  you  might  not  understand." 

Lucina  made  no  reply.  The  path  narrowed  just 
there  and  gave  her  an  excuse  for  quitting  Jerome's 
arm.  She  did  so  with  a  gentle  murmur  of  explana 
tion,  for  she  could  do  nothing  abruptly,  then  went 
on  before  him  swiftly.  Her  white  shawl  hung  from 
her  head  to  her  waist  in  sharp  slants.  She  moved 
through  the  dusk  with  the  evanescent  flit  of  a  white 
moth. 


343 


"  Of  course,"  stammered  Jerome,  painfully  and 
boyishly,  "I — knew — you  would  not  care  if — I  did 
not  come.  It  was  not  as  if — I  had  thought  you — 
would." 

Lucina  said  nothing  to  that  either.  Jerome 
thought  miserably  that  she  did  not  hear,  or,  hearing, 
agreed  with  what  he  said. 

Soon,  however,  Lucina  spoke,  without  turning  her 
head.  "I  can  understand,"  said  she,  with  the  gen 
tlest  and  yet  the  most  complete  dignity,  for  she 
spoke  from  her  goodness  of  heart,  "that  a  person 
has  often  to  do  what  he  thinks  best,  and  not  explain 
it  to  any  other  person,  because  it  is  between  him  and 
his  own  conscience.  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  had 
some  very  good  reason  for  not  coming  to  see  me  that 
Sunday  night,  and  you  need  not  tell  me  what  it  was. 
I  am  very  glad  that  you  did  not,  as  I  feared,  stay 
away  because  I  had  not  treated  you  with  courtesy. 
Now,  we  will  say  no  more  about  it."  With  that,  the 
path  being  a  little  wider,  she  came  to  his  side  again, 
and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  the  most  innocent 
friendliness  and  forgiveness  in  hers. 

Jerome  could  have  gone  down  at  her  feet  and  wor 
shipped  her. 

"What  a  beautiful  night  it  is!"  said  Lucina,  tilt 
ing  her  face  up  towards  the  stars. 

"Beautiful  !"  said  Jerome,  looking  at  her,  breath 
lessly. 

"I  never  saw  the  stars  so  thick,"  said  she,  musing 
ly.  "Everybody  has  his  own  star,  you  know.  I 
wonder  which  my  star  is,  and  yours.  Did  you  ever 
think  of  it  ?" 

"  I  guess  my  star  isn't  there,"  said  Jerome. 

"  Why,  yes,"  cried  Lucina,  earnestly,  "  it  must  be!" 


344 


"  No,  it  isn't  there/7  repeated  Jerome,  with  a  soft 
emphasis  on  the  last  word. 

Lucina  looked  up  at  him,  then  her  eyes  fell  before 
his.  She  laughed  confusedly.  "  Did  you  know  what 
I  came  to  your  house  to-night  for  ?"  said  she,  trying 
to  speak  unconsciously. 

"  To  see  Elmira  ?" 

"  No,  to  give  both  of  you  an  invitation  to  tea  at 
Aunt  Camilla's  to-morrow  afternoon  at  five  o'clock." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Jerome, 
"but—" 

"  You  cannot  come  ?" 

"No,  I  am  afraid  not." 

"  The  tea  is  to  be  in  the  arbor  in  the  garden,  the 
way  it  was  that  other  time,  when  we  were  both  chil 
dren  ;  there  is  to  be  plum-cake  and  the  best  pink 
cups.  Nobody  is  asked  but  you  and  your  sister  and 
Lawrence  Prescott,"  said  Lucina,  but  with  no  insist 
ence  in  her  voice.  Her  gentle  pride  was  up. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged,  but  I  am  afraid  I  can't 
come,"  Jerome  said,  pleadingly. 

Lucina  did  not  say  another  word. 

Jerome  glanced  down  at  her,  and  her  fair  face,  be 
tween  the  folds  of  her  white  shawl,  had  a  look  which 
smote  his  heart,  so  full  it  was  of  maiden  dignity  and 
yet  of  the  surprise  of  pain. 

A  new  consideration  came  to  Jerome.  "Why 
should  I  stay  away  from  her,  refuse  all  her  little  in 
vitations,  and  treat  her  so  ?"  he  thought.  "What  if 
I  do  get  to  wanting  her  more,  and  get  hurt,  if  it 
pleases  her  ?  There  is  no  danger  for  her ;  she  does 
not  care  about  me,  and  will  not.  The  suffering  will 
all  be  on  my  side.  I  guess  I  can  bear  it ;  if  it  pleases 
her  to  have  me  come  I  will  do  it.  I  have  been  think- 


345 


ing  only  of  myself,  and  what  is  a  hurt  to  myself  in 
comparison  with  a  little  pleasure  for  her  ?  She  has 
asked  me  to  this  tea-party,  and  here  I  am  hurting 
her  by  refusing,  because  I  am  so  afraid  of  getting 
hurt  myself !" 

Suddenly  Jerome  looked  at  Lucina,  with  a  patient 
and  tender  smile  that  her  father  might  have  worn  for 
her.  "  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  come,"  said  he. 

"Not  unless  you  can  make  it  perfectly  convenient," 
Lucina  replied,  with  cold  sweetness;  "  I  would  rather 
not  urge  you." 

"  It  will  be  perfectly  convenient,"  said  Jerome.  "  I 
thought  at  first  I  ought  not  to  go,  that  was  all." 

"  Of  course,  Aunt  Camilla  and  I  will  be  very  happy 
to  have  you  come,  if  you  can,"  said  Lucina.  Still, 
she  was  not  appeased.  Jerome's  hesitating  accept 
ance  of  this  last  invitation  had  hurt  her  more  than 
all  that  had  gone  before.  She  began  to  wish,  with  a 
great  pang  of  shame,  that  she  had  not  gone  to  his 
house  that  night,  had  not  tried  to  see  him,  had  not 
proposed  this  miserable  party.  Perhaps  he  did  mean 
to  slight  her,  after  all,  though  nobody  ever  had  be 
fore,  and  how  she  had  followed  him  up  ! 

She  walked  on  very  fast;  they  were  nearly  home. 
When  they  reached  her  gate,  she  said  good-night, 
quickly,  and  would  have  gone  in  without  another 
word,  but  Jerome  stopped  her.  He  had  begun  to 
understand  her  understanding  of  it  all,  and  had  taken 
a  sudden  resolution.  "Better  anything  than  she 
should  think  herself  shamed  and  slighted,"  he  told 
himself. 

"Will  you  wait  just  a  minute  ?"  he  said ;  "  Fve  got 
something  I  want  to  say." 

Lucina  waited,  her  face  averted. 


346 


"  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  you  why  I  thought 
I  ought  not  to  come,  that  Sunday  night."  said  Je 
rome  ;  "  I  didn't  think  of  telling  you,  but  I  can  see 
now  that  you  may  think  I  meant  to  slight  you,  if  I 
don't.  I  did  not  think  at  first  that  you  could  dream 
I  could  slight  anybody  like  you,  and  not  want  to  go 
to  see  you,  but  I  begin  to  see  that  you  don't  just 
know  how  every  one  looks  at  you." 

"  I  thought  I  ought  not  to  come,  because  all  of  a 
sudden  I  found  out  that  I  was — what  they  call  in 
love  with  you." 

Lucina  stood  perfectly  still,  her  face  turned  away. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  offended,"  said  Jerome  ;  "I 
knew,  of  course,  that  there  is  no  question  of — your 
liking  me.  I  would  not  want  you  to.  I  am  not  tell 
ing  you  for  that,  but  only  that  you  may  not  feel  hurt 
because  I  slighted  your  invitation  the  other  night, 
and  because  I  thought  at  first  I  could  not  accept 
this.  But  I  was  foolish  about  it,  I  guess.  If  you 
would  like  to  have  me  come,  that  is  enough." 

"  You  have  not  known  me  long  enough  to  like  me," 
said  Lucina,  in  a  very  small,  sweet  voice,  still  keep 
ing  her  face  averted. 

"  I  guess  time  don't  count  much  in  anything  like 
this,"  said  Jerome. 

"Well," said  Lucina,  with  a  soft,  long  breath,  "I 
cannot  see  why  your  liking  me  should  hinder  you 
from  coming." 

"I  guess  you're  right;  it  shouldn't  if  you  want 
me  to  come." 

"  Why  did  you  ever  think  it  should  ?"  Lucina 
flashed  her  blue  eyes  around  at  him  a  second,  then 
looked  away  again. 

"  I  was  afraid  if — I  saw  you  too  often  I  should 


347 


want  to  marry  you  so  much  that  I  would  want  noth 
ing  else,  not  even  to  help  other  people,"  said  Jerome. 

(<  Why  need  you  think  about  marrying  ?  Can't 
you  come  to  see  me  like  a  friend  ?  Can't  we  be 
happy  so  ?"  asked  Lucina,  with  a  kind  of  wistful 
petulance. 

"I  needn't  think  about  it,  and  we  can — " 

"I  don't  want  to  think  about  marrying  yet/'  said 
Lucina  ;  "  I  don't  know  as  I  shall  ever  marry.  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  think  so  much  about  that." 

"I  don't/'  said  Jerome  ;  "  I  shall  never  marry." 

"You  will,  some  time,"  Lucina  said,  softly. 

"No  ;  I  never  shall." 

Lucina  turned.     "  I  must  go  in,"  said  she. 

Her  hand  and  Jerome's  found  each  other,  with 
seemingly  no  volition  of  their  own.  "I  am  glad 
you  didn't  come  because  you  didn't  like  me/'  Lucina 
said,  softly  ;  "  and  we  can  be  friends  and  no  need  of 
thinking  of  that  other." 

"  Yes,"  Jerome  said,  all  of  a  tremble  under  her 
touch  ;  "  and — you  won't  feel  oifended  because  I  told 
you  ?" 

' 'No,  only  I  can't  see  why  you  stayed  away  for 
that." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  next  afternoon  Jerome  went  to  Miss  Camilla's 
tea-party.  Sitting  in  the  arbor,  whose  interior  was 
all  tremulous  and  vibrant  with  green  lights  and  shad 
ows,,  as  with  a  shifting  water-play,  sipping  tea  from 
delicate  china,  eating  custards  and  the  delectable 
plum-cake,  he  tasted  again  one  of  the  few  sweet  sa 
vors  of  his  childhood. 

Jerome,  in  the  arbor  with  three  happy  young  peo 
ple,  taking  for  the  first  time  since  his  childhood  a 
holiday  on  a  work-day,  seemed  to  comprehend  the 
first  notes  of  that  great  harmony  of  life  which  proves 
by  the  laws  of  sequence  the  last.  The  premonition 
of  some  final  blessedness,  to  survive  all  renunciation 
and  sacrifice,  was  upon  him.  He  felt  raised  above 
the  earth  with  happiness.  Jerome  seemed  like  an 
other  person  to  his  companions.  The  wine  of  youth 
and  certainty  of  joy  stirred  all  the  light  within  him 
to  brilliancy.  He  had  naturally  a  quicker,  readier 
tongue  than  Lawrence  Prescott,  now  he  gave  it  rein. 

He  could  command  himself,  when  he  chose  and 
did  not  consider  that  it  savored  of  affectation,  to  a 
grace  of  courtesy  beyond  all  provincial  tradition. 
In  his  manners  he  was  not  one  whit  behind  even 
Lawrence  Prescott,  with  his  college  and  city  train 
ing,  and  in  face  and  form  and  bearing  he  was  much 
his  superior.  Lawrence  regarded  him  with  growing 
respect  and  admiration,  Elmira  with  wonder. 


349 


As  for  Miss  Camilla,  she  felt  as  if  tripping  over  her 
own  inaccuracy  of  recollection  of  him.  "I  never 
saw  such  a  change  in  any  one,  my  dear/'  she  told 
Lucina  the  next  day.  "I  could  scarcely  believe  he 
was  the  little  boy  who  used  to  weed  my  garden,  and 
with  so  few  advantages  as  he  has  had  it  is  really  re 
markable.  " 

"  Father  says  so,  too/'  remarked  Lucina,  looking 
steadily  at  her  embroidery. 

Miss  Camilla  gazed  at  her  reflectively.  She  had  a 
mild  but  active  imagination,  which  had  never  been 
dispelled  by  experience,  for  romance  and  hearts 
transfixed  with  darts  of  love.  "  I  hope  he  will  never 
be  so  unfortunate  as  to  place  his  affections  where 
they  cannot  be  reciprocated,  since  he  is  in  such  poor 
circumstances  that  he  cannot  marry,"  she  sighed,  so 
gently  that  one  could  scarcely  suspect  her  of  any 
hidden  meaning. 

"  I  do  not  think/'  said  Lucina,  still  with  steadfast 
eyes  upon  her  embroidery,  "that  a  woman  should 
consider  poverty  if  she  loves."  Then  her  cheeks 
glowed  crimson  through  her  drooping  curls,  and  Miss 
Camilla  also  blushed;  still  she  attributed  her  niece's 
tender  agitation  to  her  avowal  of  general  principles. 
She  did  not  once  consider  any  danger  to  Lucina  from 
Jerome  ;  but  she  had  seen,  on  the  day  before,  the 
young  man's  eyes  linger  upon  the  girl's  lovely  face, 
and  had  immediately,  with  the  craft  of  a  female, 
however  gentle,  for  such  matters,  reached  half-pleas 
ant,  half-melancholy  conclusions. 

It  was  gratifying  and  entirely  fitting  that  her 
beautiful  Lucina  should  have  a  heart-broken  lover  at 
her  feet ;  still,  it  was  sad,  very  sad,  for  the  poor  lover. 
"  When  the  affections  are  enlisted,  one  should  not 


350 


hesitate  to  share  poverty  as  well  as  wealth,"  she  ad 
mitted,  with  a  little  conscious  tremor  of  delicacy  at 
such  pronounced  views. 

"I  do  not  think  Jerome  himself  wants  to  be  mar 
ried,"  said  Lucina,  quickly. 

Miss  Camilla  sighed.  She  remembered  again  the 
young  man's  fervent  eyes.  "  I  hope  he  does  not,  my 
dear/7  she  said. 

"/do  not  intend  to  marry  either.  I  am  never  go 
ing  to  be  married  at  all,"  said  Lucina,  with  a  seem 
ing  irrelevance  which  caused  Camilla  to  make  mild 
eyes  of  surprise  and  wonder  sadly,  after  her  niece  had 
gone  home,  if  it  were  possible  that  the  dear  child 
had,  thus  early,  been  crossed  in  love. 

Lucina,  ever  since  Jerome's  confession  of  love,  had 
experienced  a  curious  revulsion  from  her  maiden 
dreams.  She  had  such  instinctive  docility  of  character 
that  she  was  at  times  amenable  to  influences  entire 
ly  beyond  her  own  knowledge.  Not  understanding 
in  the  least  Jerome's  attitude  of  renunciation,  she  ac 
cepted  it  for  herself  also.  She  no  longer  builded  bridal 
air-castles.  She  still  embroidered  her  chair-covers, 
thinking  that  they  would  look  very  pretty  in  the 
north  parlor,  and  some  of  the  old  chairs  could  be 
moved  to  the  garret  to  make  room  for  them.  She 
gazed  at  her  aunt  Camilla  with  a  peaceful  eye  of 
prophecy.  Just  so  would  she  herself  look  years 
hence.  Her  hair  would  part  sparsely  to  the  wind, 
like  hers,  and  show  here  and  there  silver  instead  of 
golden  lustres.  There  would  be  a  soft  resetted  cap 
of  lace  to  hide  the  thinnest  places,  and  her  cheeks, 
like  her  aunt's,  would  crumple  and  wrinkle  as  softly 
as  old  rose  leaves,  and,  like  her  aunt,  in  this  guise  she 
would  walk  her  path  of  life  alone. 


351 


Lucina  seemed  to  see,  as  through  a  long,  converging 
tunnel  of  years,  her  solitary  self,  miniatured  clearly  in 
the  distance,  gliding  on,  like  Camilla,  with  that  sweet 
calm  of  motion  of  one  who  has  left  the  glow  of  joy 
behind,  but  feels  her  path  trend  on  peace. 

"  I  dare  say  it  may  be  just  as  well  not  to  marry, 
after  all,"  reasoned  Lucina,  "  a  great  many  people  are 
not  married.  Aunt  Camilla  seems  very  happy,  happier 
than  many  married  women  whom  I  have  seen.  She  has 
nothing  to  disturb  her.  I  shall  be  happy  in  the  way 
she  is.  When  I  am  such  an  old  maid  that  my  father 
and  mother  will  have  died,  because  they  were  too  old 
to  live  longer,  I  will  leave  this  house,  because  I  could 
not  bear  to  stay  here  with  them  away,  and  go  to  Aunt 
Camilla's.  She  will  be  dead,  too,  by  that  time,  and 
her  house  will  be  mine.  Then  I,  in  my  cap  and  spec 
tacles,  will  sit  afternoons  in  the  summer-house,  and 
— perhaps — he — he  will  be  older  than  I  then,  and 
white-haired,  and  maybe  stooping  and  walking  with 
a  cane — perhaps — he  will  come  often,  and  sit  with  me 
there,  and  we  will  remember  everything  together/' 

In  all  her  forecasts  for  a  single  life,  Lucina  could 
not  quite  eliminate  her  lover,  though  she  could  her 
husband.  She  and  Jerome  were  always  to  be  friends, 
of  course,  and  he  was  to  come  and  see  her.  Lucina, 
when  once  Jerome  had  begun  to  visit  her,  never  con 
templated  the  possibility  of  his  ever  ceasing  to  do  so. 
He  did  not  come  regularly — the  wisdom  of  that  was 
tacitly  understood  between  them;  since  there  was  to 
be  no  marriage,  there  could  necessarily  be  no  court 
ship.  There  was  never  any  sitting  up  together  in 
the  north  parlor,  after  the  fashion  of  village  lovers. 
Jerome  merely  spent  an  hour  or  two  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  the  Squire  and  his  wife  and  Lucina. 


Sometimes  he  and  the  Squire  talked  politics  and 
town  affairs  while  Lucina  and  her  mother  sewed. 
Sometimes  the  four  played  whist,  or  bezique,  for 
in  those  days  Jerome  was  learning  to  take  a  hand  at 
cards,  but  he  had  always  Mrs.  Merritt  for  his  part 
ner,  and  the  Squire  Lucina.  Indeed,  Lucina  would 
have  considered  herself  highly  false  and  treacherous 
had  she  manifested  an  inclination  to  be  the  partner 
of  any  other  than  her  father.  Sometimes  the  Squire 
sat  smoking  and  dozing,  and  sometimes  he  was  away, 
and  in  those  cases  Mrs.  Merritt  sewed,  and  Jerome 
and  Lucina  played  checkers. 

It  tried  Jerome  sorely  to  capture  Lucina's  men 
and  bar  her  out  from  the  king-row,  and  she  some 
times  chid  him  for  careless  playing. 

Sometimes,  after  Jerome  was  gone  and  Lucina  in 
bed,  Abigail  Merritt,  who  had  always  a  kind  but  fur 
tively  keen  eye  upon  the  two  young  people,  talked  a 
little  anxiously  to  the  Squire.  "  I  know  that  he  does 
not  come  regularly  and  he  sees  us  all,  but — I  don't 
know  that  it  is  wise  for  us  to  let  them  be  thrown  so 
much  together,"  she  would  say,  with  a  nervous  frown 
on  her  little  dark  face. 

The  Squire's  forehead  wrinkled  with  laughter,  but  he 
was  finishing  his  pipe  before  going  to  bed,  and  would 
riot  remove  it.  He  rolled  humorously  inquiring  eyes 
through"  the  cloud  of  smoke,  and  his  wife  answered 
as  if  to  a  spoken  question.  "  I  know  Jerome  Edwards 
doesn't  seem  like  other  young  men,  but  he  is  a  young 
man,  after  all,  and,  if  we  shouldn't  say  it,  I  am  afraid 
somebody  will  get  hurt.  We  both  know  what  Lucina 
is—" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  afraid  Lucina  will 
get  hurt,"  spluttered  the  Squire,  quickly. 


353 


"  It  isn't  likely  that  a  girl  like  Lucina  could  get 
hurt  herself,"  cried  Abigail,  with  a  fine  blush  of 
pride. 

"  I  suppose  you're  right/'  assented  the  Squire,  with 
a  chuckle.  e{  I  suppose  there's  not  a  young  fool  in  the 
country  but  would  think  himself  lucky  for  a  chance 
to  tie  the  jade's  shoestring.  I  guess  there'll  be  no 
hanging  back  of  dancers  whenever  she  takes  a  notion 
to  pipe,  eh  ?" 

"She  has  not  taken  a  notion  to  pipe,  and  I  doubt 
if  she  will  at  present,"  said  Abigail,  with  a  little 
bridle  of  feminine  delicacy,  "and  —  he  is  a  good 
young  man,  though,  of  course,  it  would  scarcely  be 
advisable  if  she  did  fancy  him,  but  she  does  not. 
Lucina  has  never  concealed  anything  from  me  since 
she  was  born,  and  I  know— 

"  Then  it's  the  boy  you're  worrying  about  ?" 

Abigail  nodded.  "  He's  a  good  young  man,  and  he 
has  had  a  hard  struggle.  I  don't  want  his  peace  of 
mind  disturbed  through  any  means  -of  ours,"  said 
she. 

The  Squire  got  up,  shook  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe, 
and  laid  it  with  tender  care  on  the  shelf.  Then  he 
put  his  great  hands  one  upon  each  of  his  wife's  little 
shoulders,  and  looked  down  at  her.  Abigail  Merritt 
had  a  habit  of  mind  which  corresponded  to  that  of 
her  body.  She  could  twist  and  turn,  with  the  fine 
adroitness  of  a  fox,  round  sudden,  sharp  corners  of 
difficulty,  when  her  husband  might  go  far  on  the 
wrong  road  through  drowsy  inertia  of  motion  ;  but, 
after  all,  he  had  sometimes  a  clearer  view  than  she 
of  ultimate  ends,  past  the  petty  wayside  advantages  of 
these  skilful  doublings  and  turnings. 

She  could  deal  with  details  with  little  taper-finger 

23 


354 


touches  of  nicety,  but  she  could  not  judge  as  well  as 
he  of  generalities  and  the  final  scope  of  combinations. 
It  was  doubtful  if  Abigail  ever  fairly  appreciated  her 
own  punch. 

"Abigail/'  said  the  Squire,  looking  down  at  her, 
his  great  bearded  face  all  slyly  quirked  with  humor — 
"  Abigail,  look  here.  There  are  a  good  many  things 
that  you  and  I  can  do,  and  a  few  that  we  can't  do.  I 
can  fish  and  shoot  and  ride  with  any  man  in  the 
county,  and  bluster  folks  into  doing  what  I  want 
them  to  mostly,  if  I  keep  my  temper ;  and  as  for  you — 
you  know  what  you  can  do  in  the  way  of  fine  stitch 
ing,  and  punch-making,  and  house-keeping,  and  you 
and  I  together  have  got  the  best,  and  the  handsom 
est,  and  the  most  blessed" — the  Squire's  voice  broke 
—"daughter  in  the  county,  by  the  Lord  Harry  we 
have.  I  can  shoot  any  man  who  looks  askance  at 
her,  I  can  lie  down  in  the  mud  for  her  to  walk  over 
to  keep  her  little  shoes  dry,  and  you  can  fix  her  pret 
ty  gowns  and  keep  her  curls  smooth,  and  watch  her 
lest  she  breathe  too  fast  or  too  slow  of  a  night,  but 
there  we've  got  to  stop.  You  can't  make  the  posies 
in  your  garden  any  color  you  have  a  mind,  my  girl, 
and  I  can't  change  the  spots  on  the  trout  I  land. 
We  can't,  either  of  us,  make  a  sunset,  or  a  rainbow, 
or  stop  a  thunder-storm,  or  raise  an  east  wind. 
There  are  things  we  run  up  blind  against,  and  I  reck 
on  this  is  one  of  'em.  It's  got  to  come  out  the  way 
it  will,  and  you  and  I  can't  hinder  it,  Abigail." 

"  We  can  hinder  that  poor  boy  from  having  his 
heart  broken." 

The  Squire  whistled.  "  Lock  the  stable-door  after 
the  colt  is  stolen,  eh  ?" 

"Eben  Merritt,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 


355 


"  I  mean  that  the  boy  comes  here  now  and  then, 
not  courting  the  girl,  as  I  take  it,  at  all,  and  shows  so 
far  no  signs  of  anything  amiss,  and  had,  in  my  opin 
ion,  best  be  let  alone.  Lord,  when  I  was  his  age,  if 
a  girl  like  Lucina  had  been  in  the  question,  and  any 
body  had  tried  to  rein  me  up  short,  I'd  have  kicked 
over  the  breeches  entirely.  I'd  have  either  got  her 
or  blown  my  brains  out.  That  boy  can  take  care  of 
himself,  anyhow.  He'll  stop  coming  here  of  his  own 
accord,  if  he  thinks  he'd  better." 

Abigail  sniffed  scornfully  with  her  thin  nostrils. 

"  Wait  and  see/'  said  the  Squire. 

"  I  shall  wait  a  long  time  before  I  see,"  she  said, 
but  she  was  mistaken.  The  very  next  week  Jerome 
did  not  come,  then  a  month  went  by  and  he  had  not 
appeared  once  at  the  Squire's  house. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

ONE  Sunday  afternoon,  during  the  latter  part  of 
July,  Lucina  Merritt  strolled  down  the  road  to  her 
aunt  Camilla's.  The  day  was  very  warm  —  droning 
huskily  with  insects,  and  stirring  lazily  with  limp 
leaves. 

There  had  been  no  rain  for  a  long  time,  and  the 
road  smoked  high  with  white  dust  at  every  foot-fall. 
Lucina  raised  her  green  and  white  muslin  skirts 
above  her  embroidered  petticoat,  and  set  her  little 
feet  as  lightly  as  a  bird's.  She  carried  a  ruffled  green 
silk  parasol  to  shield  herself  from  the  sun,  though 
her  hat  had  a  wide  brim  and  napped  low  over  her 
eyes. 

Her  mother  had  remonstrated  with  her  for  going 
out  in  the  heat,  since  she  had  not  looked  quite  well 
of  late.  "You  will  make  your  head  ache,"  said  she. 

"It  is  so  cool  in  Aunt  Camilla's  north  room," 
pleaded  Lucina,  and  had  her  way. 

She  walked  slowly,  as  her  mother  had  enjoined,  but 
it  was  like  walking  between  a  double  fire  of  arrows 
from  the  blazing  white  sky  and  earth  ;  when  she  came 
in  sight  of  her  aunt  Camilla's  house  her  head  was 
dizzy  and  her  veins  were  throbbing. 

Lucina  had  not  been  happy  during  the  last  few 
weeks,  and  sometimes,  in  such  cases,  physical  discom 
fort  acts  like  a  tonic  poison.  For  the  latter  part  of 
the  way  she  thought  of  nothing  but  reaching  the 


357 


shelter  of  Camilla's  north  room ;  her  mind  regarding 
all  else  was  at  rest. 

Miss  Camilla's  house  was  closed  as  tightly  as  a  con 
vent  ;  not  a  breath  of  out-door  air  would  she  have 
admitted  after  the  early  mornings  of  those  hot  days. 
Lucina  entered  into  night  and  coolness  in  compari 
son  with  the  glare  of  day  outside.  When  she  had 
her  hat  removed,  and  sat  in  the  green  gloom  of  the 
north  parlor,  sipping  a  glass  of  water  which  Liza  had 
drawn  from  the  lowest  depths  of  the  well,  then  fla 
vored  with  currant-jelly  and  loaf-sugar,  she  felt  al 
most  at  peace  with  her  own  worries. 

Her  aunt  Camilla,  clad  in  dimly  flowing  old  mus 
lin,  sat  near  the  chimney-place,  swaying  a  feather 
fan.  She  had  her  Bible  on  her  knees,  but  she  had 
not  been  reading  ;  the  light  was  too  dim  for  her  eyes. 
The  fireplace  was  filled  with  the  feathery  green  of 
asparagus,  which  also  waved  lightly  over  the  gilded 
looking-glass,  and  was  reflected  airily  therein.  As 
paragus  plumes  waved  over  all  the  old  pictures  also. 
The  whole  room  from  this  delicate  garnishing,  the 
faded  green  tone  of  the  furniture  covers  and  carpet, 
from  the  wall-paper  in  obscure  arabesques  of  green 
and  satiny  white,  appeared  full  of  woodland  shad 
ows.  Miss  Camilla,  swaying  her  feather  fan,  served 
to  set  these  shadows  slowly  eddying  with  a  motion  of 
repose.  She  had  dozed  in  her  chair,  and  her  mind 
had  lapsed  into  peaceful  dreams  before  her  niece  ar 
rived.  Now  she  sat  beaming  gently  at  her.  "Do 
you  feel  refreshed,  dear  ?"  she  asked,  when  Lucina 
had  finished  her  tumbler  of  currant-jelly  water. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Aunt  Camilla." 

"  I  fear  you  were  not  strong  enough  to  venture  out 
in  such  heat,  glad  as  I  am  to  see  you,  dear.  Had 


338 


vou  not  better  let  'Liza,  bring  you  a  pillow,  and  then 
you  can  lie  down  on  the  sofa  and  perhaps  have  a  little 
nap  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Aunt  Camilla,  I  am  not  sleepy. 
I  am  quite  well.  I  am  going  to  sit  by  the  window 
and  read." 

With  that  Lucina  rose,  got  a  book  bound  in  red 
and  gold  from  the  stately  mahogany  table,  and  seated 
herself  by  the  one  window  whose  shutters  were  not 
tightly  closed.  It  was  a  north  window,  and  only  one 
leaf  of  the  upper  half  of  the  shutter  was  open.  The 
aperture  disclosed,  instead  of  burning  sky,  a  thick 
screen  of  horse-chestnut  boughs.  The  great  fan-like 
leaves  almost  touched  the  window-glass,  and  tinted 
all  the  dim  parallelogram  of  light. 

Even  Lucina's  golden  head  and  fair  face  acquired 
somewhat  of  this  prevailing  tone  of  green,  being 
transposed  into  another  key  of  color.  All  her  gold 
en  lights,  and  her  roses,  were  lost  in  a  delicate  green 
pallor,  which  might  have  beseemed  a  sea -nymph. 
Her  aunt,  sitting  aloof  in  that  same  green  shaft  of 
day  filtered  through  horse-chestnut  leaves,  and  also 
changed  thereby,  kept  glancing  at  her  uneasily.  She 
knew  that  her  brother  and  his  wife  had  been  anxious 
lately  about  Lucina.  She  ventured  a  few  more  gen 
tly  solicitous  remarks,  which  Lucina  met  sweetly, 
still  with  a  little  impatience  of  weariness,  scarcely 
lifting  her  face  from  her  book  ;  then  she  ventured  no 
more. 

"The  child  does  not  like  to  have  us  so  anxious 
'over  her,"  she  thought,  with  that  unfailing  courtesy 
and  consideration  which  would  spare  others  though 
she  torment  herself  thereby.  She  longed  exceed 
ingly  to  offer  Lucina  a  wineglass  of  a  home-brewed 


359 


cordial,  compounded  from  the  rich  juice  of  the  black 
berry,  the  finest  of  French  brandy,  and  sundry  spices, 
which  was  her  panacea,  but  she  abstained,  lest  it  dis 
turb  her.  Miss  Camilla  set  a  greater  value  upon 
peace  of  mind  than  upon  aught  else. 

Lucina  bent  her  face  over  her  book,  and  turned 
the  leaves  quickly,  as  if  she  were  reading  with  ab 
sorption.  Presently  Miss  Camilla  thought  she  looked 
better.  The  soft  lapping  as  of  waves,  of  the  Sabbath 
calm,  began  again  to  oversteal  her  body  and  spirit. 
Visions  of  her  peaceful  past  seemed  to  confuse  them 
selves  with  the  present.  "  You — must  stay  to  tea, 
and — not — go  home  until — after  sunset,  when  it  is 
cooler/'  she  murmured,  drowsily,  and  with  a  dim 
conviction  that  this  was  a  Sabbath  of  long  ago,  that 
Lucina  was  a  little  girl  in  a  short  frock  and  panta 
lettes  ;  then  in  a  few  minutes  her  head  drooped 
limply  towards  her  shoulder,  and  all  her  thoughts  re 
laxed  into  soft  slumberous  breaths. 

When  her  aunt  fell  asleep,  Lucina  looked  up,  with 
that  quick,  startled  sense  of  loneliness  which  some 
times,  in  such  case,  comes  to  a  sensitive  conscious 
ness.  "Aunt  Camilla  is  asleep,"  she  thought;  she 
turned  to  her  book  again.  It  was  a  copy  of  Mrs. 
Hemans's  poems.  Somehow  the  vivid  sentiment  of 
the  lines  failed  to  please  her,  though  she,  like  her 
young  lady  friends,  had  heretofore  loved  them  well. 
Lucina  read  the  first  stanza  of  "  The  warrior  bowed 
his  crested  head"  with  no  thrill  of  her  maiden  breast ; 
then  she  turned  to  "  The  Bride  of  the  Greek  Isles," 
and  that  was  no  better. 

She  arose,  tiptoed  softly  over  to  the  table,  and  ex 
amined  the  other  books  thereon.  There  were  vol 
umes  of  the  early  English  poets,  an  album,  and  A 


360 


Souvenir  of  Friendship,  in  red  and  gold,  like  the 
Hemans.  She  opened  the  souvenir,  and  looked  idly 
at  the  small,  exquisitely  fine  steel  engravings,  the 
alliterative  verses,  the  tales  of  sentiment  beginning 
with  long  preambles  couched  in  choicest  English. 
She  shut  the  book  with  a  little  weary  sigh,  and  looked 
irresolutely  at  her  sleeping  aunt,  then  at  the  chair  by 
the  north  window. 

Lucina  felt  none  of  the  languor  which  is  sometimes 
caused  by  extreme  heat.  Instead,  there  was  a  fierce 
electric  tension  through  all  her  nerves.  She  was 
weary  almost  to  death,  the  cool  of  this  dark  room 
was  unutterably  grateful  to  her,  yet  she  could  not  re 
main  quiet.  She  had  left  her  parasol  and  hat  on  the 
hall-table.  She  stole  out  softly,  with  scarcely  the 
faintest  rustle  of  skirts,  tied  on  her  hat,  took  her 
parasol,  and  went  through  the  house  to  the  back-gar 
den  door. 

Looking  back,  she  saw  the  old  servant -woman's 
broadly  interrogatory  face  in  a  vine-wreathed  kitch 
en-window.  "I  am  going  out  in  the  garden  a  little 
while,  'Liza,"  said  Lucina. 

The  garden  was  down-crushed,  its  extreme  of  sweet 
ness  pressed  out  beneath  the  torrid  sunbeams  as  un 
der  naming  hoofs.  Lucina  passed  between  the  wilt 
ing  ranks  and  flattened  beds  of  flowers,  and  the  breath 
of  them  in  her  face  was  like  the  rankest  sweetness  of 
love,  when  its  delicacy,  even  for  itself,  is  all  gone. 
The  pungent  odor  of  box  was  like  a  shameless  call 
from  the  street.  Lucina  went  into  the  summer 
house  and  sat  down.  It  was  stifling,  and  the  desper 
ate  sweetnesses  of  the  garden  seemed  to  have  collect 
ed  there,  as  in  a  nest. 

Lucina,  after  a  minute,  sprang  up,  her  face  was  a 


361 


deep  pink,  she  had  a  gentle  distracted  frown  on  her 
sweet  forehead,  her  lips  were  pouting ;  she  did  not 
look  in  the  least  like  the  Lucina  of  the  early  spring. 

She  went  out  of  the  summer-house,  and  down  the 
garden  paths,  and  then  over  a  stone  wall,  into  the 
rear  field,  which  bounded  it.  This  field  had  been 
mowed  not  long  before,  and  the  stubble  was  pink  and 
gold  in  the  afternoon  light. 

The  field  was  broad,  and  skirted  on  the  west  by 
a  thick  wood.  Lucina,  holding  her  green  parasol, 
crossed  the  field  to  the  wood.  The  stubble  was  hot 
to  her  feet,  white  butterflies  flew  in  her  face,  rusty- 
winged  things  hurled  themselves  in  her  path,  like 
shrill  completions  from  some  mill  of  insect  life. 

All  along  the  wood  there  was  a  border  of  shadow. 
Lucina  kept  close  to  the  trees,  and  so  down  the  field. 
A  faint,  cool  dampness  stole  out  from  the  depths  of 
the  wood  and  tempered  the  heat  for  the  width  of  its 
shade.  Lucina  put  down  her  parasol ;  she  was  walk 
ing  quite  steadily,  as  if  with  a  purpose. 

The  wood  extended  the  length  of  many  fields,  run 
ning  parallel  with  the  main  village  street,  behind  the 
houses.  Lucina,  passing  the  Prescott  house  from 
the  rear,  instead  of  the  front,  seeing  the  unpainted 
walls  and  roof -si  opes  of  barn  and  wood -sheds,  and  the 
garden,  had  a  curious  sense  of  retroversion  in  mate 
rial  things  which  suited  well  her  mind.  She  felt  that 
day  as  if  she  were  turned  backward  to  her  own  self. 

The  fields  were  divided  from  one  another  by  stone 
walls.  Lucina  crossed  these,  and  kept  on  until  she 
reached  a  field  some  distance  beyond  Doctor  Pres- 
cott's  house.  Then  she  left  the  shadow  of  the  wood, 
and  crossed  the  field  to  the  main  road.  In  crossing 
this  she  kept  close  to  the  wall,  slinking  along  rapid- 


362 


ly,  for  she  felt  guilty  ;  this  field  was  all  waving  with 
brown  heads  of  millet  which  should  not  have  been 
trampled. 

She  got  to  the  road  and  nobody  had  seen  her.  She 
crossed  it,  entered  a  rutty  cart-path,  and  was  in  the 
Edwards'  woodland. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Lucina  Merritt  was 
doing  something  which  she  acknowledged  to  herself 
to  be  distinctly  unmaidenly.  She  had  come  to  this 
wood  because  she  had  heard  Jerome  say  that  he  often 
strolled  here  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  Her  previous 
little  schemes  for  meeting  him  had  been  innocent  to 
her  own  understanding,  but  now  she  had  tasted  the 
fruit  of  knowledge  of  her  own  heart. 

She  felt  fairly  sick  with  shame  at  what  she  was  do 
ing,  she  blushed  to  her  own  thoughts,  but  she  had  a 
helpless  impulse  as  before,  some  goading  spur  in  her 
own  nature  which  she  could  not  withstand. 

She  hurried  softly  down  the  cart-path  between  the 
trees,  then  suddenly  stood  still,  for  under  a  great  pine- 
tree  on  the  right  lay  Jerome.  His  hat  was  off,  one  arm 
was  thrown  over  his  head,  his  face  was  flushed  with 
heat  and  slumber.  Lucina,  her  body  bent  aloof  with 
an  indescribable  poise  of  delicacy  and  the  impulse  of 
flight,  yet  looked  at  her  sleeping  lover  until  her 
whole  heart  seemed  to  feed  itself  through  her  eyes. 

Lucina  had  not  seen  him  for  more  than  six  weeks, 
except  by  sly  glimpses  at  meeting  and  on  the  road. 
She  thought,  pitifully,  that  he  had  grown  thin  ;  she 
noticed  what  a  sad  droop  his  mouth  had  at  the  cor 
ners.  She  pitied,  loved,  and  feared  him,  with  all  the 
trifold  power  of  her  feminine  heart. 

As  she  looked  at  him,  her  remembrance  of  old  days 
so  deepened  and  intensified  that  thev  seemed  to  close 


LUCLNA   LOOKED  AT  HER  SLEEPING  LOVER' 


363 


upon  the  present  and  the  future.  Love,  even  when 
it  has  apparently  no  past,  is  at  once  a  memory  and  a 
revelation.  Lucina  saw  the  little  lover  of  her  inno 
cent  childish  dreams  asleep  there,  she  saw  the  poor 
boy  who  had  gone  hungry  and  barefoot,  she  saw  the 
young  man  familiar  in  the  strangeness  of  the  future. 
And,  more  than  that,  Lucina,  who  had  hitherto  shown 
fully  to  her  awakening  heart  only  her  thought  of  Je 
rome,  having  never  dared  to  look  at  him  and  love 
him  at  the  same  time,  now  gazed  boldly  at  him 
asleep,  and  a  sense  of  a  great  mystery  came  over  her. 
In  Jerome  she  seemed  to  see  herself  also,  the  unity  of 
the  man  and  woman  in  love  dawned  upon  her  maiden 
imagination.  She  felt  as  if  Jerome's  hands  were  her 
hands,  his  breath  hers.  "I  never  knew  he  looked 
like  me  before,"  she  thought  with  awe. 

Then  suddenly  Jerome,  with  no  stir  of  awaking, 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her.  Often,  on  arous 
ing  from  a  deep  sleep,  one  has  a  sense  of  calm  and 
wonderless  observation  as  of  a  new  birth.  Jerome 
looked  for  a  moment  at  Lucina  with  no  surprise.  In 
a  new  world  all  things  may  be,  and  impossibilities  be 
come  commonplaces. 

Then  he  sprang  up,  and  went  close  to  her.  ' '  Is  it 
you  ?"  he  said,  in  a  sobbing  voice. 

Lucina  looked  at  him  piteously.  She  wanted  to 
run  away,  but  her  limbs  trembled,  her  little  hands 
twitched  in  the  folds  of  her  muslin  skirt.  Jerome 
saw  her  trembling,  and  a  soft  pink  suffusing  her  fair 
face,  even  her  sweet  throat  and  her  arms,  under  her 
thin  sleeves.  He  knew,  with  a  sudden  leap  of  ten 
derness,  which  would  have  its  way  in  spite  of  him 
self,  why  she  was  there.  She  had  wanted  to  see  him 
so,  the  dear  child,  the  fair,  wonderful  lady,  that  she 


364 


had  come  through  the  heat  of  this  burning  afternoon, 
stealing  away  alone  from  all  her  friends,  and  even 
from  her  own  decorous  self,  for  his  sake.  He  pointed 
to  the  clear  space  under  the  pine  where  he  had  been 
lying.  "  Shall  we  sit  down  there — a  minute  ?"  he 
stammered. 

"I — think  I — had  better  go,"  said  Lucina,  faintly, 
with  the  quick  impulse  of  maidenhood  to  flee  from 
that  which  it  has  sought. 

"Only  a  few  minutes — I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

They  sat  down,  Lucina  with  her  back  against  the 
pine-tree,  Jerome  at  her  side.  He  opened  his  mouth 
as  if  to  speak,  but  instead  it  widened  into  a  vacuous 
smile.  He  looked  at  Lucina  and  she  at  him,  then  he 
came  closer  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

Neither  of  them  spoke.  Lucina  hid  her  face  on 
his  breast,  and  he  held  her  so,  looking  out  over  her 
fair  head  at  the  wood.  His  mouth  was  shut  hard,  his 
eyes  were  full  of  fierce  intent  of  combat,  as  if  he 
expected  some  enemy  forth  from  the  trees  to  tear  his 
love  from  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
realized  the  full  might  of  his  own  natural  self.  He 
felt  as  if  he  could  trample  upon  the  needs  of  the 
whole  world,  and  the  light  of  his  own  soul,  to  gain 
this  first  sweet  of  existence,  whose  fragrance  was  in 
his  face. 

The  strongest  realization  of  his  nature  hitherto, 
that  of  the  outreaching  wants  of  others,  weakened. 
He  was  filled  with  the  insensate  greed  of  creation  for 
himself.  He  held  Lucina  closer,  and  bent  his  head 
down  over  hers.  Then  she  turned  her  face  a  little, 
and  their  lips  met. 

Lucina  had  never  since  her  childhood  kissed  any 


365 


man  but  her  father,  and  as  for  Jerome,  he  had  held 
such  things  with  a  shame  of  scorn.  This  meant 
much  to  both  of  them,  and  the  shock  of  such  deep 
meaning  caused  them  to  start  apart,  as  if  with  fear  of 
each  other.  Lucina  raised  her  head,  and  even  pushed 
Jerome  away,  gently,  and  he  loosened  his  hold  and 
stood  up  before  her,  all  pale  and  trembling. 

"You  must  forgive  me  —  I  —  forgot  myself,"  he 
said,  with  quick  gasps  for  breath,  "I  won't  —  sit  — 
down  there  again."  Then  he  went  on,  speaking  fast: 
"  I  have  been  —  wanting  to  tell  you,  but  there  was  no 
chance.  I  could  not  come  to  see  you  any  longer.  I 
could  not.  I  thought  a  man  could  go  to  see  a  wom 
an  when  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  could  bear  it 
when  the  love  was  all  on  his  side,  and  there  was  no  — 
chance  of  marriage.  I  thought  I  could  bear  it  if  it 
pleased  you,  but  —  I  didn't  know  it  would  be  like 
this.  I  was  never  in  love,  and  I  did  not  know.  I 
could  think  of  nothing  but  wanting  you.  It  was 
spoiling  me  for  everything  else,  and  there  are  other 
things  in  the  world  besides  this.  If  I  came  much 
longer  I  should  not  be  fit  to  come.  I  could  not  come 
any  longer."  Jerome  looked  down  at  Lucina,  with 
an  air  of  stern,  yet  wistful,  argument.  She  sat  before 
him  with  downcast,  pale,  and  sober  face,  then  she 
rose,  and  all  her  girlish  irresolution  and  shame 
dropped  from  her,  and  left  for  a  moment  the  woman 
in  her  unveiled. 

"  I  love  you  as  much  as  you  love  me,"  she  said, 
simply. 

Jerome  looked  at  her.  "You  —  don't  mean  — 
that  ?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  did  when  you  told  me  first,  but 
I  did  not  know  it  then.  Now  I  know  it.  I  have 


366 


been  very  unhappy  because  I  feared  you  might  be 
staying  away  because  you  thought  I  did  not  love  you, 
but  I  dared  not  try  to  see  you  as  I  did  before,  because 
I  had  found  myself  out.  To-day  I  could  not  help 
it,  whatever  you  might  think  of  me,  or  whatever  I 
might  think  of  myself.  I  could  not  bear  to  worry 
any  longer,  lest  you  might  be  unhappy  because  you 
thought  I  did  not  love  you.  I  do,  and  you  need  not 
stay  away  any  more  for  that." 

"Lucina — you  don't  mean — " 

"Do  you  think  I  would  have  let  you — do  as  you 
did  a  minute  ago,  if  I  had  not  ?"  said  she,  and  a 
blush  spread  over  her  face  and  neck. 

"I  — thought — it  was  all  — me — that  —  you— did 
not— r 

"No,  I  let  you,"  whispered  Lucina. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  mean  that  you — like  me  this  same 
way  that  I  do  you — enough  to  marry  me  !  You  don't 
mean  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Lucina ;  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  curious  solemn  steadfastness.  She  was 
not  blushing  any  more. 

"I— never  thought  of  this,"  Jerome  said,  drawing 
a  long,  sobbing  breath.  He  stood  looking  at  her,  his 
face  all  white  and  working.  "  Lucina,"  he  began, 
then  paused,  for  he  could  not  speak.  He  walked  a 
little  way  down  the  path,  then  came  back.  "Lu 
cina,"  he  said,  brokenly,  "as  God  is  my  witness— I 

never  thought  of  this— I  never— thought  that  you 

could—  Oh,  look  at  yourself,  and  look  at  me  !  You 
know  that  I  could  not  have  thought  — oh,  look  at 
yourself,  there  was  never  anybody  like  you  !  I  did 
not  think  that  you  could—care  for  or— be  hurt  bv— 
me.33  •  J 


367 


"  I  have  never  seen  anybody  like  you,  not  even  fa 
ther/'  Lucina  said.  She  looked  at  him  with  the 
shrinking  yet  loving  faithfulness  of  a  child  before 
emotion  which  it  cannot  comprehend.  She  could 
not  understand  why,  if  Jerome  loved  her  and  she 
him,  there  was  anything  to  be  distressed  about.  She 
could  not  imagine  why  he  was  so  pale  and  agitated, 
why  he  did  not  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her 
again,  why  they  could  not  both  be  happy  at  once. 

"Oh,  my  G-od  !"  cried  Jerome,  and  looked  at  her 
in  a  way  which  frightened  her. 

"Don't,"  she  said,  softly,  shrinking  a  little. 

"Lucina,  you  know  how  poor  I  am,"  he  said, 
hoarsely.  "You  know  I — can't — marry." 

"  I  don't  need  much,"  said  she. 

"I  couldn't — give  you  what  you  need." 

"Father  would,  then." 

"No,  he  would  not.  I  give  my  wife  all  or  noth 
ing." 

Lucina  trembled.  The  same  look  which  she  re 
membered  when  Jerome  would  not  take  her  little  sav 
ings  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Then — I  would  not  take  anything  from  father," 
she  said,  tremulously.  "  I  wouldn't  mind — being — 
poor." 

"I  have  seen  the  wives  of  poor  men,  and  you  shall 
not  be  made  one  by  me.  If  I  thought  I  had  not 
strength  enough  to  keep  you  from  that,  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned,  I  would  leave  you  this  minute,  and 
throw  myself  in  the  pond  over  there." 

"I  am  not  afraid  to  be  the  wife  of — a  poor  man — 
if  I  love  him.  I — could  save,  and — work,"  Lucina 
said,  speaking  with  the  necessity  of  faithfulness  upon 
her,  yet  timidly,  and  turning  her  face  aside,  for  her 


36S 


heart  had  begun  to  fear  lest  Jerome  did  not  really 
love  her  nor  want  her,  after  all.  A  woman  who  would 
sacrifice  herself  for  love's  sake  cannot  understand 
the  sacrifice,  nor  the  love,  which  refuses  it. 

"  You  shall  not  be,  whether  you  are  afraid  or  not !" 
Jerome  cried  out,  fiercely.  "Haven't  I  seen  John 
Upham's  wife  ?  Oh,  God  !" 

Lucina  began  moving  slowly  down  the  path  towards 
the  road;  Jerome  followed  her.  "I  must  go/' she 
said,  with  a  gentle  dignity,  though  she  trembled  in 
all  her  limbs.  "  I  came  across  the  fields  from  Aunt 
Camilla's.  I  left  her  asleep,  and  she  will  wake  and 
miss  me." 

"Oh,"  cried  Jerome,  "I  wish — "  then  he  stopped 
himself.  "Yes,  she  will,  I  suppose,"  he  added, 
lamely. 

' '  He  does  not  want  me  to  stay,"  thought  Lucina, 
with  a  sinking  of  heart  and  a  rising  of  maiden  pride. 
She  walked  a  little  faster. 

Jerome  quickened  his  pace,  and  touched  her  shoul 
der.  "You  must  not  think  about  me — about  this," 
he  murmured,  hoarsely.  "You  must  not  be  unhappy 
about  it  !" 

Lucina  turned  and  looked  in  his  face  sadly,  yet 
with  a  soft  stateliness.  "No,"  said  she,  "I  will  not. 
I  do  not  see,  after  all,  why  I  should  be  unhappy,  or 
you  either.  Many  people  do  not  marry.  I  dare  say 
they  are  happier.  Aunt  Camilla  seems  happy.  I 
shall  be  like  her.  There  is  nothing  to  hinder  our 
friendship.  We  can  always  be  friends,  like  brothers 
and  sisters  even,  and  you  can  come  to  see  me — " 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Jerome,  "  I  can't  do  that  even. 
I  told  you  I  could  not." 

Lucina  said  no  more.     She  turned  her  face  and 


369 


went  on.  She  said  good-bye  quickly  when  she 
reached  the  road,  and  was  across  it  and  under  the 
bars  into  the  millet. 

Jerome  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her ;  he  stood  for 
a  moment  watching  her  moving  through  the  millet,, 
as  through  the  brown  waves  of  a  shallow  sea ;  then  he 
went  back  into  the  woods.  When  he  reached  the 
place  where  he  had  sat  with  Lucina  he  stopped  and 
spoke,  as  if  she  were  still  there. 

" Lucina/' he  said,  "I  promise  you  before  God, 
that  I  will  never,  so  long  as  I  live,  love  or  marry 
any  other  woman  but  you.  I  promise  you  that  I 
will  work  as  I  never  did  before — my  fingers  to  the 
bone,  my  heart  to  its  last  drop  of  blood — to  earn 
enough  to  marry  you.  And  then,  if  you  are  free,  I 
will  come  to  you  again.  I  will  fight  to  win  you,  with 
all  the  strength  that  is  in  me,  against  the  whole 
world,  and  I  will  love  you  forever,  forever,  but  I 
promise  you  that  I  will  never  say  this  in  your  hearing 
to  bind  you  and  make  you  wait,  when  I  may  die  and 


CHAPTER    XXX 

LUCIRA  did  not  go  into  her  aunt  Camilla's  house 
again  that  afternoon.  She  crossed  the  fields — her 
aunt's  garden — skirted  the  house  to  the  road — thence 
home. 

When  she  entered  the  south  door  her  mother  met 
her.  "  Why  didn't  you  wait  until  it  was  cooler  ?" 
she  asked ;  then,  before  the  girl  could  answer,  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?  Why,  Lucina,  you  have  been  cry 
ing  i" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Lucina,  piteously,  pushing  past 
her  mother. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"Up-stairs  to  my  chamber."  With  that  Lucina 
was  on  the  stairs,  and  her  mother  followed. 

The  two  were  a  long  time  in  Lucina's  chamber ; 
then  Abigail  came  down  alone  to  her  husband  in  the 
sitting-room. 

The  Squire,  who  was  as  alert  as  any  fox  where  his 
beloved  daughter  was  concerned,  had  scented  some 
thing  wrong,  and  looked  up  anxiously  when  his  wife 
entered. 

"  She  isn't  sick,  is  she  ?"  he  asked. 

"She  will  be,  if  we  don't  take  care,"  Abigail  re 
plied,  shortly. 

"You  don't  mean  it !"  cried  the  Squire,  jumping 
up.  "  I'll  go  for  the  doctor  this  minute.  It  was  the 
heat.  Why  didn't  you  keep  her  at  home,  Abigail  ?" 


371 


' '  Sit  down,,  for  mercy's  sake,  Eben  \"  said  Abigail. 
She  sat  down  herself  as  she  spoke,  and  crossed  her 
little  slender  feet  and  hands  with  a  quick,  involun 
tary  motion,  which  was  usual  to  her.  "It  is  as  I 
told  you,"  said  she.  Abigail  Merritt,  good  comrade 
of  a  wife  though  she  was,  yet  turned  aggressively 
feminine  at  times. 

The  Squire  sat  down.  "  What  do  you  mean,  Abi 
gail  ?" 

"I  mean — that  I  wish  that  Edwards  boy  had  never 
entered  this  house." 

((  Abigail,  you  don't  mean  that  Lucina —  What 
do  you  mean,  Abigail  ?"  finished  the  Squire,  feebly. 

' '  I  mean  that  I  was  right  in  thinking  some  harm 
would  como  from  that  boy  being  here  so  much,"  re 
plied  his  wife.  Then  she  went  on  and  repeated  in 
substance  the  innocent  little  confession  which  Lucina 
had  made  to  her  in  her  chamber. 

The  Squire  listened,  his  bearded  chin  sunken  on 
his  chest,  his  forehead,  under  the  crest  of  yellow 
locks,  bent  gloomily. 

' '  It  seems  as  if  you  and  I  had  done  everything  that 
we  could  for  the  child  ever  since  she  was  born,"  he 
said,  huskily,  when  his  wife  had  finished.  His  first 
emotion  was  one  of  cruel  jealousy  of  his  daughter's 
love  for  another  man. 

Abigail  looked  at  him  with  quick  pity,  but  scarce 
ly  with  full  understanding.  She  could  never  lose,  as 
completely  as  he,  their  daughter,  through  a  lover. 
She  had  not  to  yield  her  to  another  of  the  same  sex, 
and  in  that  always  the  truest  sting  of  jealousy  lies. 

"  So  far  as  that  goes,  it  is  no  more  than  we  had  to 
expect,  Eben,"  she  said.  ' '  You  know  that.  I  turned 
away  from  my  parents  for  you." 


372 


"I  know  it,  Abigail,  but  —  I  thought,  maybe,  it 
wouldn't  come  yet  a  while.  I've  done  all  I  could. 
I  bought  her  the  little  horse — she  seemed  real  pleased 
with  that,  Abigail,  you  know.  I  thought,  maybe,  she 
would  be  contented  a  while  here  with  us." 

"  Eben  Merritt,  you  don't  for  a  minute  think  that 
she  can  be  anywhere  but  with  us,  for  all  this  !" 

"It's  the  knowledge  that  she's  willing  to  be  that 
comes  hard,"  said  the  Squire,  piteously — "it's  that, 
Abigail." 

"  I  don't  know  that  she's  any  too  willing  to,"  re 
turned  Abigail,  half  laughing.  "  The  principal  thing 
that  seems  to  trouble  the  child  is  that  Jerome  won't 
come  to  see  her.  I  rather  think  that  if  he  would 
come  to  see  her  she  would  be  perfectly  contented." 

"And  why  can't  he  come  to  see  her,  if  she  wants 
him  to — will  you  tell  me  that  ?"  cried  the  Squire,  with 
sudden  fervor. 

"Eben  Merritt,  would  you  have  the  poor  child 
getting  to  thinking  more  of  him  than  she  does,  when 
he  isn't  going  to  marry  her  ?" 

"  And  why  isn't  he  going  to  marry  her,  if  she 
wants  him  ?  By  the  Lord  Harry,  Lucina  shall  have 
whoever  she  wants,  if  it's  a  prince  or  a  beggar  !  If 
that  fellow  has  been  coming  here,  and  now — " 

"Eben,  listen  to  me  and  keep  quiet.!"  cried  Abi 
gail,  running  at  her  great  husband's  side,  with  a 
little,  wiry,  constraining  hand  on  his  arm,  for  the 
Squire  had  sprung  from  his  seat  and  was  tramping 
up  and  down  in  his  rage  that  Lucina  should  be 
denied  what  she  wanted,  even  though  it  were  his 
own  heart's  blood.  "  You  know  what  I  told  you," 
Abigail  said.  "Jerome  is  behaving  well.  You 
know  he  can't  marry  Lucina— he  hasn't  a  penny." 


373 


' '  Then  I'll  give  'em  pennies  enough  to  marry  on. 
The  girl  shall  have  whom  she  wants ;  I  tell  you  that, 
Abigail." 

"  How  much  have  you  got  to  give  them  until  we 
are  gone,  even  if  Jerome  would  marry  under  such 
conditions  ;  and  I  told  you  what  he  said  to  Lucina 
about  it,"  returned  his  wife,  quietly. 

st  I'll  go  to  work  myself,  then,"  shouted  the  Squire ; 
"and  as  for  the  boy,  he  shall  swallow  his  damned 
pride  before  he  gives  my  girl  an  anxious  hour.  What 
is  he,  to  say  he  will  or  will  not,  if  she  lifts  her  little 
finger  ?  By  the  Lord  Harry,  he  ought  to  go  down 
on  his  face  like  a  heathen  when  she  looks  at  him  I" 

"  Eben,"  said  Abigail,  "  will  you  listen  to  me  ?  I 
tell  you,  Jerome  is  behaving  as  well  as  any  young 
man  can.  I  know  he  is,  from  what  Lucina  has  told  me. 
He  loves  her,  and  he  is  proving  it  by  giving  her  up. 
You  know  that  he  cannot  marry  her  unless  he  drags 
her  into  poverty,  and  you  know  how  much  you  have 
to  help  them  with.  You  know,  too,  good  as  Jerome 
is,  and  worthy  of  praise  for  what  he  has  done,  that 
Lucina  ought  to  do  better  than  marry  him." 

"He  is  a  good  boy,  Abigail,  and  if  she's  got  her 
heart  set  on  him  she  shall  have  him." 

"You  don't  know  that  her  heart  is  set  on  him, 
Eben.  I  think  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  send 
her  down  to  Boston  for  a  little  visit — she  may  feel 
differently  when  she  comes  home." 

"I  won't  have  her  crossed,  Abigail.  Was  she 
crying  when  you  left  her  ?" 

"  She  will  soon  be  quiet  and  go  to  sleep.  I  am 
going  to  make  some  toast  for  her  supper.  Eben, 
where  are  you  going  ?"  The  Squire  had  set  forth 
for  the  door  in  a  determined  rush. 


374 


"  I  am  going  to  see  that  boy,  and  know  what  this 
work  means/'  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice  of  wrath  and 
pity. 

However,  Abigail's  vivacious  persistency  of  com 
mon-sense  usually  overcame  her  husband's  clumsy 
headlongs  of  affection.  She  carried  the  day  at  last, 
and  the  Squire  subsided,  though  with  growls  of  re 
monstrance,  like  a  partially  tamed  animal. 

"  Have  your  way,  and  send  her  down  to  Boston,  if 
you  want  to,  Abigail,"  said  he ;  "but  when  she  comes 
back  she  shall  have  whatever  she  wants,  if  I  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  get  it  for  her." 

So  that  day  week  Jerome,  going  one  morning  to 
his  work,  stood  aside  to  lef  the  stage-coach  pass  him, 
and  had  a  glimpse  of  Lucina's  fair  face  in  the  wave 
of  a  blue  veil  at  the  window.  She  bowed,  but  the 
stage  dashed  by  in  such  a  fury  of  dust  that  Jerome 
could  scarcely  discern  the  tenor  of  the  salutation. 
He  thought  that  she  smiled,  and  not  unhappily. 
"  She  is  going  away,"  he  told  himself ;  "she  will  go 
to  parties,  and  see  other  people,  and  forget  me."  He 
tried  to  dash  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  at  the  thought, 
with  the  sweetness  of  unselfish  love,  but  it  was  hard. 
He  plodded  on  to  his  work,  the  young  springiness 
gone  from  his  back  and  limbs,  his  face  sternly  down 
cast. 

As  for  Lucina,  she  was  in  reality  leaving  Upham 
not  unhappily.  She  was  young,  and  the  sniff  of 
change  is  to  the  young  as  the  smell  of  powder  to  a 
war-horse.  New  fields  present  always  wide  ranges 
of  triumphant  pleasure  to  youth. 

Lucina,  moreover,  loved  with  girlish  fervor  the 
friend,  Miss  Eose  Soley,  whom  she  was  going  to 
visit  in  Boston.  She  had  not  seen  her  for  some 


375 


months,  and  she  tas-ted  in  advance  the  sweets  of 
mutual  confidences.  That  morning  Jerome's  face 
was  a  little  confused  in  Lucina's  mind  with  that  of 
a  rosy-cheeked  and  dark -ringleted  girl,  and  young 
passion  somewhat  dimmed  by  gentle  affection  for  one 
of  her  own  sex. 

Then,  too,  Lucina  had  come,  during  the  last  few 
days,  to  a  more  cheerful  and  hopeful  view  of  the 
situation.  After  all,  Jerome  loved  her,  and  was  not 
that  the  principal  thing  ?  Perhaps,  in  time,  it  would 
all  come  right.  Jerome  might  get  rich ;  in  the 
meantime,  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  be  married  and 
leave  her  parents,  and  if  Jerome  would  only  come 
to  see  her,  that  would  be  enough  to  make  her  very 
happy,  She  thought  that  after  her  return  he  would 
very  probably  come.  She  reasoned,  as  she  thought, 
astutely,  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  help  it,  when 
he  saw  her  after  a  long  absence.  Then  she  had  much 
faith  in  her  father's  being  able  to  arrange  this  satis 
factorily  for  her,  as  he  had  arranged  all  other  matters 
during  her  life. 

"Now  don't  you  fret,  Pretty/*'  he  had  said,  when 
she  bade  him  good-bye,  "father  will  see  to  it  that 
you  have  everything  you  want."  And  Lucina,  all 
blushing  with  innocent  confusion,  had  believed  him. 

In  addition  to  all  this  she  had  in  her  trunks,  strap 
ped  at  the  back  of  the  stage-coach,  two  fine,  new  silk 
gowns,  and  one  muslin,  and  a  silk  mantilla.  Also 
she  carried  a  large  blue  bandbox  containing  a  new 
plumed  hat  and  veil,  which  cheered  her  not  a  little, 
being  one  of  those  minor  sweets  which  providentially 
solace  the  weak  feminine  soul  in  its  unequal  combat 
with  life's  great  bitternesses. 

Lucina  was  away  some  three  months,  not  return- 


376 


ing  until  a  few  days  before  Thanksgiving ;  then  she 
brought  her  friend,  Miss  Rose  Soley,  with  her,  and 
also  a  fine  young  gentleman,  with  long,  curling,  fair 
locks,  and  a  face  as  fair  as  her  own. 

While  Lucina  was  gone,  Jerome  led  a  life  easier  in 
some  respects,  harder  in  others.  He  had  no  longer 
the  foe  of  daily  temptation  to  overcome,  but  instead 
was  the  steady  grind  of  hunger.  Jerome,  in  those 
days,  felt  the  pangs  of  that  worst  hunger  in  the 
world — the  hunger  for  the  sight  of  one  beloved. 
Some  mornings  when  he  awoke  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  should  die  of  mere  exhaustion  and  starvation 
of  spirit  if  he  saw  not  Lucina  before  night.  In  those 
days  he  would  rather  have  walked  over  fiery  plough 
shares  than  visited  any  place  where  he  had  seen  Lu 
cina,  and  where  she  now  was  not.  He  never  went  near 
the  wood,  where  they  had  sat  together ;  he  would  not 
pass  even,  if  he  could  help  it,  the  Squire's  house  or 
Miss  Camilla's.  His  was  one  of  those  minds  for  whom, 
when  love  has  once  come,  place  is  only  that  which 
holds,  or  is  vacant  of,  the  beloved.  He  was  glad  when 
the  white  frost  came  and  burned  out  the  gardens  and 
the  woodlands  with  arctic  fires  of  death,  for  then  the 
associations  with  old  scenes  were  in  a  measure  lost. 

One  Sunday  after  the  frost,  when  the  ground  was 
shining  stiff  with  it,  as  with  silver  mail,  and  all  the 
trees  thickened  the  distance  as  with  glittering  furze, 
he  went  to  his  woodland,  and  found  that  he  could 
bear  the  sight  of  the  place  where  he  and  Lucina  had 
been  together ;  its  strangeness  of  aspect  seemed  to 
place  it  so  far  in  the  past. 

Jerome  threw  up  his  head  in  the  thin,  sparkling  air. 
"I  will  have  her  yet/'  he  said,  quite  aloud ;  and  " if 
I  do  not,  I  can  bear  that." 


377 


He  felt  like  one  who  would  crush  the  stings  of  fate, 
even  if  against  his  own  heart.  He  had  grown  old  and 
thin  during  the  last  weeks  ;  he  had  worked  so  hard 
and  resolutely,  yet  with  so  little  hope ;  and  he  who 
toils  without  hope  is  no  better  than  a  slave  to  his  own 
will.  That  day,  when  he  went  home,  his  eyes  were 
bright  and  his  cheeks  glowing.  His  mother  and  sis 
ter  noticed  the  difference. 

"  I  was  afraid  he  was  gettin'  all  run  down,"  Ann 
Edwards  told  Elmira;  "but  he  looks  better  to-day." 

Elmira  herself  was  losing  her  girlish  bloom.  She 
was  one  who  needed  absolute  certainties  to  quiet 
distrustful  imaginations,  and  matters  betwixt  herself 
and  Lawrence  Prescott  were  less  and  less  on  a  stable 
footing.  Lawrence  was  working  hard;  she  should 
not  have  suspected  that  his  truth  towards  her  flagged, 
but  she  sometimes  did.  He  did  not  come  to  see  her 
regularly.  Sometimes  two  weeks  went  past,  some 
times  three,  and  he  had  not  come.  In  fact,  Lawrence 
endeavored  to  come  only  when  he  could  do  so  openly. 

"I  hate  to  deceive  father  more  than  I  can  help/' 
he  told  Elmira,  but  she  did  not  understand  him 
fully. 

She  was  a  woman  for  whom  the  voluntary  absence 
of  a  lover  who  yet  loves  was  almost  an  insoluble  prob 
lem,  and  in  that  Lucina  was  not  unlike  her.  She 
was  not  naturally  deceptive,  but,  when  it  came  to  love, 
she  was  a  Jesuit  in  conceiving  it  to  sanctify  its  own 
ends. 

The  suspense,  the  uncertainty,  as  to  her  lover 
coming  or  not,  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  her. 
Every  nerve  in  her  slight  body  was  in  an  almost  con 
stant  state  of  tension. 

It  was  just  a  week  from  that  day  that  Jerome  and 


378 


Elmira,  being  seated  in  meeting,  saw  Lucina  enter 
with  her  parents  and  her  visiting  friends.  Jerome's 
heart  leaped  up  at  the  sight  of  Lucina,  then  sank 
before  that  of  the  young  man  following  her  up  the 
aisle.  "  He  is  going  to  marry  her ;  she  has  forgotten 
me,"  he  thought,  directly. 

As  for  Elmira,  she  eyed  Miss  Rose  Soley's  dark  ring 
lets  under  the  wide  velvet  brim  of  her  hat,  the  crim 
son  curve  of  her  cheek,  and  the  occasional  backward 
glance  of  a  black  eye  at  Lawrence  Prescott  seated 
directly  behind  her.  When  meeting  was  over,  she 
caught  Jerome  by  the  arm.  "Come  out  quick,"  she 
said,  in  a  sharp  whisper,  and  Jerome  was  glad  enough 
to  go. 

Lucina's  guests  spent  Thanksgiving  with  her. 
Jerome  saw  them  twice,  riding  horseback  with  Law 
rence  Prescott — Lucina  on  her  little  white  horse, 
Miss  Soley  on  Lawrence's  black,  the  strange  young 
man  on  the  Squire's  sorrel,  and  Lawrence  on  a  gray. 

Lucina  colored  when  she  saw  Jerome,  and  reined 
her  horse,  lingering  behind  the  others,  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  notice  it,  and  never  looked  at  her  after 
his  first  grave  bow ;  then  she  touched  her  horse,  and 
galloped  after  her  friends  with  a  windy  swirl  of  blue 
veil  and  skirts. 

Jerome  wondered  if  his  sister  would  hear  that  Law 
rence  Prescott  had  been  out  riding  with  Lucina  and 
her  friends.  When  he  got  home  that  night,  he  met 
Belinda  Lamb  coming  out  of  the  gate;  when  he  en 
tered,  he  saw  by  Elmira's  face  that  she  had  heard.  She 
was  binding  shoes  very  fast ;  her  little  face  was  white, 
except  for  red  spots  on  the  cheeks,  her  mouth  shut 
hard.  Her  mother  kept  looking  at  her  anxiously. 

"You'd   better   not  worry  till   you   know  you've 


379 


got  something  to  worry  about ;  likely  as  not,  they 
asked  him  to  go  with  them  'cause  Lucina's  beau  don't 
know  how  to  ride  very  well,  and  he  couldn't  help  it/' 
she  said,  with  a  curious  aside  of  speech,  as  if  Jerome, 
though  on  the  stage,  was  not  to  hear. 

He  took  no  notice,  but  that  night  he  had  a  word 
with  his  sister  after  their  mother  had  gone  to  bed. 
"If  he  has  asked  you  to  marry  him,  you  ought  to 
trust  him,"  said  he.  "I  don't  believe  his  going  to 
ride  with  that  girl  means  anything.  You  ought  to 
believe  in  him  until  you  know  he  isn't  worthy  of  it." 

Elmira  turned  upon  him  with  a  flash  of  eyes  like 
his  own.  "  Worthy  !"  she  cried—"  don't  I  think  he 
would  be  worthy  if  he  did  leave  me  for  her  !  Do  you 
think  I  would  blame  him  if  he  did  leave  anybody  as 
poor  as  I  am,  worked  'most  to  skin  and  bone,  of  body 
and  soul  too,  for  anybody  like  that  girl  ?  I  guess 
I  wouldn't  blame  him,  and  you  needn't.  I  don't 
blame  him  ;  it's  true,  I  know,  he'll  never  come  to  see 
me  again,  but  I  don't  blame  him." 

"  If  he  doesn't  come  to  see  you  again  he'll  have  me 
to  hear  from,"  Jerome  said,  fiercely. 

"  No,  he  won't.  Don't  you  ever  dare  speak  to  him, 
or  blame  him,  Jerome  Edwards;  I  won't  have  it." 
Elmira  ran  into  her  chamber,  leaving  an  echo  of  wild 
sobs  in  her  brother's  ears. 

The  day  after  Thanksgiving,  Lucina's  friends  went 
away ;  when  Jerome  came  home  that  night  Elmira's 
face  wore  a  different  expression,  which  Mrs.  Edwards 
explained  with  no  delay. 

"Belinda  Lamb  has  been  here,"  she  said,  "and 
that  young  man  is  that  Boston  girl's  beau  ;  he  ain't 
Lucina's,  and  Lawrence  Prescott  ain't  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  He  was  up  there  last  night,  but  it  wa'n't 


380 


anything.  Why,  Jerome  Edwards,  you  look  as  pale 
as  death  I" 

Jerome  muttered  some  unintelligible  response,  and 
went  out  of  the  room,,  with  his  mother  staring  after 
him.  He  went  straight  to  his  own  little  chamber, 
and,  standing  there  in  the  still,  icy  gloom  of  the 
winter  twilight,  repeated  the  promise  which  he  had 
made  in  summer. 

"If  you  are  true  to  me,  Lucina,"  he  said,  in  a 
straining  whisper — "if  you  are  true  to  me — but  I'll 
leave  it  all  to  you  whether  you  are  or  not,  Fll  work 
till  I  win  you." 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

Ox  the  evening  of  the  next  day  Jerome  went  to 
call  on  Lawyer  Eliphalet  Means.  Lawyer  Means 
lived  near  the  northern  limit  of  the  village,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  brook. 

Jerome,  going  through  the  covered  bridge  which 
crossed  the  brook,,  paused  and  looked  through  a  space 
between  the  side  timbers.  This  brook  was  a  sturdy 
little  torrent  at  all  times ;  in  spring  it  was  a  river. 
Now,  under  the  white  concave  of  wintry  moonlight, 
it  broke  over  its  stony  bed  with  a  fierce  persistency  of 
advance.  Jerome  looked  down  at  the  rapid,  shifting 
water-hillocks  and  listened  to  their  lapsing  murmur, 
incessantly  overborne  by  the  gathering  rush  of  on 
set,  then  nodded  his  head  conclusively,  as  if  in  re 
sponse  to  some  mental  question,  and  moved  on. 

Lawyer  Eliphalet  Means  lived  in  the  old  Means 
house.  It  upreared  itself  on  a  bare  moon -silvered 
hill  at  the  right  of  the  road,  with  a  solid  state  of 
simplest  New  England  architecture.  It  dated  back 
to  the  same  epoch  as  Doctor  Prescott's  and  Squire 
Merritt's  houses,  but  lacked  even  the  severe  orna 
ments  of  their  time. 

Jerome  climbed  the  shining  slope  of  the  hill  to  the 
house  door,  which  was  opened  by  Lawyer  Means  him 
self  ;  then  he  followed  him  into  the  sitting-room.  A 
great  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  came  in  his  face  when 
the  sitting-room  door  was  thrown  open.  Through  it 


382 


Jerome  could  scarcely  see  Colonel  Jack  Lamson,  in  a 
shabby  old  coat,  seated  before  the  blazing  hearth- 
fire,  with  a  tumbler  of  rum-and-water  on  a  little  ta 
ble  at  his  right  hand. 

"  Sit  down/'  said  Means  to  Jerome,  and  pulled  an 
other  chair  forward.  "  Quite  a  sharp  night  out,"  he 
added. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Jerome,  seating  himself. 

Lawyer  Means  resumed  his  own  chair  and  his  pipe, 
at  which  he  puffed  with  that  jealous  comfort  which 
comes  after  interruption.  Colonel  Lamson,  when  he 
had  given  a  friendly  nod  of  greeting  to  the  young 
man,  without  removing  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
leaned  back  his  head  again,  stretched  his  legs  more 
luxuriously,  and  blew  the  smoke  in  great  wreaths 
around  his  face.  This  sitting-room  of  Lawyer  Means's 
was  a  scandal  to  the  few  matrons  of  Upham  who  had 
ever  penetrated  it.  "Don't  look  as  if  a  woman  had 
ever  set  foot  in  it,"  they  said.  The  ancient  female 
relative  of  Lawyer  Means  who  kept  his  house  had  not 
been  a  notable  house-keeper  in  her  day,  and  her  day 
was  nearly  past.  Moreover,  she  had  small  control 
over  this  particular  room. 

The  great  apartment,  with  the  purple  clouds  of 
tobacco  smoke,  which  were  settling  against  its  low 
ceiling  and  in  its  far  corners,  transfused  with  gold 
en  gleams  of  candles  and  rosy  flashes  of  fire-light, 
dingy  as  to  wall-paper  and  carpet,  with  the  dust  of 
months  upon  all  shiny  surfaces,  seemed  a  very  for 
tress  of  bachelorhood  wherein  no  woman  might  enter. 

The  lawyer's  books  in  the  tall  cases  were  arranged 
in  close  ranks  of  strictest  order,  as  were  also  the 
neatly  ticketed  files  of  letters  and  documents  in  the 
pigeon-holes  of  the  great  desk  ;  otherwise  the  whole 


383 


room  seemed  fluttering  and  protruding   out   of  its 
shadows  with  loose  ends   of   paper  and  corners  of* 
books.     All  the  free  lines  in  the  room  were  the  tan 
gents  of  irrelevancy  and  disorder. 

The  lawyer,  puffing  at  his  pipe,  with  eyes  half 
closed,  did  not  look  at  Jerome,  but  his  attitude  was 
expectant. 

Jerome  stared  at  the  blazing  fire  with  a  hesitat 
ing  frown,  then  he  turned  with  sudden  resolution 
to  Means.  "  Can  I  see  you  alone  a  minute  ?"  he 
asked. 

The  Colonel  rose,  without  a  word,  and  lounged  out 
of  the  room ;  when  the  door  had  shut  behind  him, 
Jerome  turned  again  to  the  lawyer.  "I  want  to 
know  if  you  are  willing  to  sell  me  two  hundred  and 
sixty-five  dollars'  worth  of  your  land,"  said  he. 

"  Which  land?" 

"Your  land  on  Graystone  brook.  I  want  one 
hundred  and  thirty-two  dollars  and  fifty  cents'  worth 
on  each  side." 

"Why  don't  you  make  it  even  dollars,  and  what  in 
thunder  do  you  want  the  land  on  two  sides  for  ?" 
asked  the  lawyer,  in  his  dry  voice,  threaded  between 
his  lips  and  pipe. 

Jerome  took  an  old  wallet  from  his  pocket.  "  Be 
cause  two  hundred  and  sixty-five  dollars  is  all  the 
money  I've  got  saved,"  he  replied,  "and — 

"You  haven't  brought  it  here  to  close  the  bargain 
on  the  spot  ?"  interrupted  the  lawyer. 

"Yes  ;  I  knew  you  could  make  out  the  deed." 

Means  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe,  but  his  face 
twitched  as  if  with  laughter. 

"I  want  it  on  both  sides  of  the  brook,"  Jerome 
said,  "because  I  don't  want  anybody  else  to  get  it. 


384 


J  want  to  build  a  saw-mill,  and  I  want  to  control  all 
the  water-power." 

"I  thought  you  said  that  was  all  the  money  you 
had." 

"It  is." 

"How  are  you  going  to  build  a  saw-mill,  then? 
That  money  won't  pay  for  enough  land,  let  alone  the 
mill." 

"I  am  going  to  wait  until  I  save  more  money; 
then  I  shall  buy  more  land  and  build  the  mill/'  re 
plied  Jerome. 

"Why  not  borrow  the  money  ?" 

Jerome  shook  his  head. 

"  Suppose  I  let  you  have  some  money  at  six  per 
cent. ;  suppose  you  build  the  mill,  and  I  take  a  mort 
gage  on  that  and  the  land." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Why  not  ?  If  I  am  willing  to  trust  a  young  fel 
low  like  you  with  money,  what  is  your  objection  to 
taking  it  ?" 

"I  would  rather  wait  until  I  can  pay  cash  down, 
sir,"  replied  Jerome,  sturdily. 

"You'll  be  gray  as  a  badger  before  you  get  the 
money." 

"Then  I'll  be  gray,"  said  Jerome.  His  handsome 
young  face,  full  of  that  stern  ardor  which  was  a 
principle  of  his  nature,  confronted  the  lawyer's,  lean 
and  dry,  deepening  its  shrewdly  quizzical  lines  about 
mouth  and  eyes. 

Means  looked  sharply  at  Jerome.  "What  has 
etarted  you  in  this  ?  What  makes  you  think  it  will 
be  a  good  thing  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No  saw-mill  nearer  than  Westbrook,  good  water- 
power,  straight  course  of  brook,  below  the  falls  can 


385 


float  logs  down  to  the  mill  from  above,,  then  down  to 
Dale.  People  in  Dale  are  paying  heavy  prices  for 
lumber  on  account  of  freight ;  then  the  railroad  will 
go  through  Dale  within  fivo  years,  and  they  will  want 
sleepers,  and— 

"  Perhaps  they  won't  take  them  from  you,  young 


"I  have  been  to  Squire  Lennox,  in  Dale  ;  he  is  the 
prime  mover  in  the  railroad,  and  will  be  a  director,  if 
not  the  president ;  he  has  given  me  the  refusal  of 
the  job." 

"  Where  will  you  get  your  logs  ?" 

"I  have  bargained  with  two  parties." 

"Five  years  is  a  long  time  ahead. " 

"  It  won't  be,  if  I  wait  long  enough." 

"You  are  a  damned  fool  not  to  borrow  the  money. 
The  railroad  may  go  through  in  another  year,  and 
all  the  standing  wood  in  the  county  may  burn  down," 
said  Means,  quietly. 

"  Let  it  then,"  said  Jerome,  looking  at  him. 

The  lawyer  laughed,  silently. 

When  Jerome  went  home  he  had  in  his  pocket  a 
deed  of  the  land,  but  on  the  right  bank  of  the  brook 
only,  the  lawyer  having  covenanted  not  to  sell  or 
build  upon  the  left  bank.  Thus  he  had  enough  land 
upon  which  to  build  his  mill  when  he  should  have 
aaved  the  money.  He  felt  nearer  Lucina  than  he 
had  ever  done  before.  The  sanguineness  of  youth, 
which  is  its  best  stimulant  for  advance,  thrilled 
through  all  his  veins.  He  had  mentioned  five  years 
as  the  possible  length  of  time  before  acquisition  ; 
secretly  he  laughed  at  the  idea.  Five  years  !  Why, 
he  could  save  enough  money  in  three  years — in  less 
than  three  years — in  two  years  !  It  had  been  only  a 

25 


386 


short  time  since  he  had  made  the  last  payment  on 
the  mortgage,  and  he  had  saved  his  two  hundred  and 
sixty-five  dollars.  A  saw-mill  would  not  cost  much. 
He  could  build  a  great  part  of  it  himself. 

That  night  Jerome  truly  counted  his  eggs  before 
they  were  hatched.  All  the  future  seemed  but  a  nest 
for  his  golden  hopes.  He  would  work  and  save — he 
was  working  and  saving.  He  would  build  his  mill ; 
as  he  thought  further,  the  foundation-stones  were 
laid,  the  wheel  turned,  and  the  saw  hissed  through 
the  live  wood.  He  would  marry  Lucina  ;  he  saw  her 
in  her  bridal  white — 

All  this  time,  with  that  sublime  cruelty  which  man 
can  show  towards  one  beloved  when  working  for  love's 
final  good,  and  which  is  a  feeble  protot}7pe  of  the 
Higher  method,  Jerome  gave  not  one  thought  to 
the  fact  that  Lucina  knew  nothing  of  his  plans, 
and,  if  she  loved  him,  as  she  had  said,  must  suffer. 
When,  moreover,  one  has  absolute  faith  in,  and 
knowledge  of,  his  own  intentions  for  the  welfare 
of  another,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  other 
may  not  be  able  to  spell  out  his  actions  towards  the 
same  meaning. 

Jerome  really  felt  as  if  Lucina  knew.  The  next 
Sunday  he  watched  her  come  into  meeting  with  an 
exquisite  sense  of  possession,  which  he  imagined  her 
to  understand. 

When  he  did  not  go  to  see  her  that  night,  but,  in 
stead,  sat  happily  brooding  over  the  future,  it  never 
once  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  otherwise  with 
her. 

All  poor  Lucina's  ebullition  of  spirits  from  her 
pleasant  visit,  her  pretty  gowns,  and  her  fond  belief 
that  Jerome  could  not  have  meant  what  he  said,  and 


387 


would  come  to  see  her  after  her  return,  was  fast  set 
tling  into  the  dregs  of  disappointment. 

Night  after  night  she  put  on  one  of  her  prettiest 
gowns,  and  waited  with  that  wild  torture  of  wait 
ing  which  involves  uncertainty  and  concealment,  and 
Jerome  did  not  come.  Lucina  began  to  believe  that 
Jerome  did  not  love  her  ;  she  tried  to  call  her  maid 
enly  pride  to  her  aid,  and  succeeded  in  a  measure. 
She  stopped  putting  on  a  special  gown  to  please  Je 
rome  should  he  come  ;  she  stopped  watching  out  for 
him ;  she  stopped  healing  her  mind  with  hope  in  or 
der  that  it  might  be  torn  open  afresh  with  disap 
pointment,  but  the  wound  remained  and  gaped  to 
her  consciousness,  and  Lucina  was  a  tender  thing. 
She  held  her  beautiful  head  high  and  forced  her  face 
to  gentle  smiles,  but  she  went  thin  and  pale,  and 
could  not  sleep  of  a  night,  and  her  mother  began  to 
fret  about  her,  and  her  father  to  lay  down  his  knife 
and  fork  and  stare  at  her  across  the  table  when  she 
could  not  eat. 

Squire  Eben  at  that  time  ransacked  the  woods  for 
choice  game,  and  himself  stood  over  old  Hannah  or 
his  wife,  broiling  the  delicate  birds  that  they  be  done 
to  a  turn,  and  was  fit  to  weep  when  his  pretty  Lucina 
could  scarcely  taste  them.  Often,  too,  he  sent  surrep 
titiously  to  Boston  for  dainties  not  obtainable  at  home 
— East  "India  fruits  and  jellies  and  such — to  tempt 
his  daughter's  appetite,  and  watched  her  with  great 
frowns  of  anxious  love  when  they  were  set  before 
her. 

One  afternoon,  when  Lucina  had  gone  up  to  her 
chamber  to  lie  down,  having  left  her  dinner  almost 
untasted,  though  there  was  a  little  fat  wild  bird  and 
guava  jelly  served  on  a  china  plate,  and  an  orange 


888 


and  figs  to  come  after,  the  Squire  beckoned  his  wife 
into  the  sitting-room  and  shut  the  door. 

"  D'ye  think  she's  going  into  a  decline  ?"  he  whis 
pered.  His  great  frame  trembled  all  over  when  he 
asked  the  question,,  and  his  face  was  yellow-white. 
Years  ago  a  pretty  young  sister  of  his,  whose  name 
sake  Lucina  was,  had  died  of  a  decline,  as  they  had 
termed  it,  and,  ever  since,  death  of  the  young  and  fair 
had  worn  that  guise  to  the  fancy  of  the  Squire.  He 
remembered  just  how  his  young  sister  had  looked 
when  she  was  fading  to  her  early  tomb,  and  to-day 
he  had  .seemed  to  see  her  expression  in  his  daugh 
ter's  face. 

Abigail  laid  her  little  hand  on  his  arm.  "Don't 
look  so,  Eben,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  she  is  in  a 
decline;  she  doesn't  cough." 

"What  ails  her,  Abigail  ?" 

Mrs.  Merritt  hesitated.  "  I  don't  know  that  much 
ails  her,  Eben,"  she  said,  evasively.  "Girls  often  get 
run  down,  then  spring  up  again." 

"'Abigail,  you  don't  think  the  child  is  fretting 
about — that  boy  again  ?" 

"She  hasn't  mentioned  his  name  to  me  for  weeks, 
Eben,"  replied  Abigail,  and  her  statement  carried  re 
assurance,  since  the  Squire  argued,  with  innocent 
masculine  prejudice,  that  what  came  not  to  a  wom 
an's  tongue  had  no  abiding  in  her  mind. 

His  wife,  if  she  were  more  subtle,  gave  no  evidence 
of  it.  "I  think  the  best  plan  would  be  for  her  to  go 
away  again,"  she  added. 

The  Squire  looked  at  her  wistfully.  "Do  you 
think  it  would,  Abigail  ?" 

"I  think  she  would  brighten  right  up,  the  way  she 
did  before." 


389 


"  She  did  brighten  up,  didn't  she  ?"  said  the  Squire, 
with  a  sigh.  "Well,  maybe  you're  right,  Abigail, 
but  you've  got  to  go  with  her  this  time.  The  child 
isn't  going  away,  looking  as  she  does  now,  without 
her  mother." 

So  it  happened  that,  a  week  or  two  later,  Jerome, 
going  to  his  work,  met  the  coacli  again,  and  this  time 
had  a  glimpse  of  Abigail  Merritt's  little,  sharply  alert 
face  beside  her  daughter's  pale,  flower-like  droop  of 
profile.  He  had  not  been  in  the  shop  long  before 
his  uncle's  wife  came  with  the  news.  She  stood  in 
the  doorway,  quite  filling  it  with  her  voluminosity 
of  skirts  and  softly  palpitating  bulk,  holding  a  little 
fluttering  shawl  together  under  her  chin. 

"They've  gone  out  West,  to  Ohio,  to  Mis'  Mer 
ritt's  cousin,  Mary  Jane  Anstey,  that  was  ;  she  mar 
ried  rich,  years  ag  >,  and  went  out  there  to  live,  and 
Abigail  'ain't  seen  her  since.  She's  been  teasin'  her 
to  come  for  years ;  her  own  folks  are  all  dead  an' 
gone,  an'  her  husband  is  poorly,  an'  she  can't  leave 
him  to  come  here.  Camilla,  she  paid  the  expenses  of 
one  of  'em  out  there.  Luciiia's  been  real  miserable 
lately,  an'  they're  worried  about  her.  The  Squire's 
sister,  that  she  was  named  for,  went  down  in  a  decline 
in  six  months  ;  so  her  mother  has  taken  her  out  there 
for  a  change,  an'  they're  goin'  to  make  a  long  visit. 
Lucina  is  real  poorly.  1  had  it  from  'Lizy  Wells. 
Camilla  told  her.'" 

Jerome  shifted  his  back  towards  his  aunt  as  he  sat 
on  his  bench.  His  face,  bent  over  his  work,  was 
white  and  rigid. 

"  You're  coldin'  of  the  shop  off,  Belindy,"  said 
Ozias. 

"Well,  I  s'pose  I.  be,"  said  she,  with  a  pleasant 


390 


titter  of  apology,  and  backed  off  the  threshold  and 
shut  the  door. 

"  That's  a  woman/'  said  Ozias,  "  who  'ain't  got  any 
affairs  of  her  own,  but  she's  perfectly  contented  an' 
happy  with  her  neighbors',  taken  weak.  That's  the 
kind  of  woman  to  marry  if  you  ain't  got  anythin'  to 
give  her — no  money,  no  interests  in  life,  no  anythin'." 

Jerome  made  no  reply.  His  uncle  gave  a  shrewd 
glance  at  him.  "  When  ye  can't  eat  lollypops,  it's 
jest  as  well  not  to  have  them  under  your  nose,"  he 
remarked,  with  seemingly  no  connection,  but  Jerome 
said  nothing  to  that  either. 

He  worked  silently,  with  fierce  energy,  the  rest  of 
the  morning.  He  had  not  heard  before  of  Lucina's  ill 
health  ;  she  had  not  been  to  church  the  Sunday  pre 
vious,  but  he  had  thought  of  nothing  serious  from 
that.  Now  the  dreadful  possibility  came  to  him — 
suppose  she  should  die  and  leave  his  world  entirely, 
of  what  avail  would  all  his  toil  be  then  ?  When  he 
went  home  that  noon  he  ate  his  dinner  hastily,  then, 
on  his  way  back  to  the  shop,  left  the  road,  crossed 
into  a  field,  and  sat  down  in  the  wide  solitude,  on  a 
rock  humping  out  of  the  dun  roll  of  sere  grass-land. 
Always,  in  his  stresses  of  spirit,  Jerome  sought  in 
stinctively  some  closet  which  he  had  made  of  the 
free  fastnesses  of  nature. 

The  day  was  very  dull  and  cold  ;  snow  threatened, 
should  the  weather  moderate.  Overhead  was  a  sus 
pended  drift  of  gray  clouds.  The  earth  was  stark  as 
a  corpse  in  utter  silence.  The  stillness  of  the  frozen 
air  was  like  the  stillness  of  death  and  despair.  A 
fierce  blast  would  have  given  at  least  the  seuse  of  life 
and  fighting  power.  "  Suppose  she  dies,"  thought 
Jerome — "  suppose  she  dies." 


391 


He  tried  to  imagine  the  world  without  Lucina,  but 
he  could  not,  for  with  all  his  outgoing  spirit  his 
world  was  too  largely  within  him.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  the  conception  of  the  death  of  that  which 
he  loved  better  than  his  life  was  upon  him,  and  it 
was  a  conception  of  annihilation.  "  If  Lucina  is  not, 
then  I  am  not,  and  that  upon  which  I  look  is  not/7 
was  in  his  mind. 

When  he  rose,  he  staggered,  and  could  scarcely  see 
his  way  across  the  field.  When  he  entered  his  uncle's 
shop,  Ozias  looked  at  him  sharply.  "If  you're  sick 
you'd  better  go  home  and  go  to  bed,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  of  harsh  concern. 

"  I  am  not  sick,"  said  Jerome,  and  fell  to  work 
with  a  sort  of  fury. 

As  the  days  went  on  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 
not  bear  life  any  longer  if  he  did  not  hear  how  Lucina 
was,  and  yet  the  most  obvious  steps  to  hear  he  did 
not  take.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  march  straight 
to  the  Squire's  house,  and  inquire  of  him  concerning 
his  daughter's  health.  Far  from  that,  he  actually 
dreaded  to  meet  him,  lest  he  read  in  his  face  that 
she  was  worse.  He  did  not  go  to  meeting,  lest  the 
minister  mention  her  in  his  prayer  for  the  sick  ;  he 
stayed  as  little  as  possible  in  the  company  of  h'is 
mother  and  sister,  lest  they  repeat  sad  news  concern 
ing  her  ;  if  a  neighbor  came  in,  he  got  up  and  left  the 
room  directly.  He  never  went  to  the  village  store  of 
an  evening ;  he  ostracized  himself  from  his  kind,  lest 
they  stab  him  with  the  confirmation  of  his  agonizing 
fear.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Jerome  had  turned 
coward. 

One  day,  when  Lucina  had  been  gone  about  a 
month,  he  was  coming  home  from  Dale  when  he 


392 


heard  steps  behind  him  and  a  voice  shouting  for 
him  to  stop.  He  turned  and  saw  Colonel  Jack 'Lam- 
son  coming  with  breathless  quickening  of  his  stiff 
military  gait. 

When  the  Colonel  reached  him  he  could  scarcely 
speak  ;  his  wheezing  chest  strained  his  coat  to  ex 
ceeding  tightness,  his  face  was  purple,  he  swung  his 
cane  with  spasmodic  jerks.  "Fine  day/'  he  gasped 
out. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jerome. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  February,  the  snow  was 
thawing,  and  for  the  first  time  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  spring  in  the  air  which  caused  one,  with  the  recur 
rence  of  an  old  habit  of  mind,  to  listen  and  sniff  as 
for  birds  and  flowers. 

The  two  men  stepped  along,  picking  their  way 
through  the  melting  snow.  "  The  doctor  has  ordered 
me  out  for  a  three-mile  march  every  day.  I'm  going 
to  stent  myself/'  said  the  Colonel,  still  breathing 
hard;  then  he  looked  keenly  at  Jerome.  "'What 
have  you  been  doing  to  yourself,  young  fellow  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Nothing.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  an 
swered  Jerome. 

'"  Nothing  !  Why,  you  have  aged  ten  years  since  I 
last  saw  you  !" 

"I  am  well  enough,  Colonel  Lamson." 

"How  about  that  deed  I  witnessed?  Have  you 
got  enough  money  to  build  the  mill  yet  ?" 

"No,  I  haven't,"  replied  Jerome,  with  a  curious 
tone  of  defiance  and  despair,  which  the  Colonel  in 
terpreted  wrongly. 

"Oh,  don't  give  up  yet,"  he  said,  cheerfully. 
"  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day,  you  know." 


393 


Jerome  made  no  reply,  but  trudged  on  doggedly. 

"How  is  she  ?"  asked  the  Colonel,  suddenly. 

Jerome  turned  white  and  looked  at  him.  "  Who  ?" 
hD  said. 

The  Colonel  laughed,  with  wheezy  facetiousness. 
"Why,  she — she.  Young  men  don't  build  nests  or 
saw-mills  unless  there  is  a  she  in  the  case." 

"  There  isn't — "  began  Jerome.  Then  he  shut  his 
mouth  hard  and  walked  on. 

"  It's  only  my  joke,  Jerome/'  laughed  the  Colonel, 
but  there  was  no  responsive  smile  on  Jerome's  face. 
Colonel  Lamson  eyed  him  narrowly.  "The  Squire 
had  a  letter  from  his  wife  yesterday,"  he  said,  with 
no  preface.  Then  he  started,  for  Jerome  turned  upon 
him  a  face  as  of  one  who  is  braced  for  death. 

"How — is  she  ?"  he  gasped  out. 

"  Who  ?  Mrs.  Merritt  ?  No,  confound  it  all,  my 
boy,  she's  better  !  Hold  011  to  yourself,  my  boy ;  I 
tell  you  she's  better." 

Jerome  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  walked  ahead  so  fast 
that  the  Colonel  had  to  quicken  his  pace.  "Wait  a 
minute/'  he  panted  ;  "I  want  a  word  with  you." 

Jerome  stopped,  and  the  Colonel  came  up  and 
faced  him.  "  Look  here,  young  man,"  he  said,  with 
sudden  wrath,  "if  I  thought  for  a  minute  you  had 
jilted  that  girl,  I  wouldn't  stop  for  Avords  ;  I  would 
take  you  by  the  neck  like  a  puppy,  and  I'd  break 
every  bone  in  your  body." 

Jerome  squared  his  shoulders  involuntarily ;  his 
face,  confronting  the  Colonel's,  twitched.  "  I'll  kill 
you  or  any  other  man  who  dares  to  say  I  did,"  he 
cried  out,  fiercely. 

"If  I  hadn't  known  you  didn't  I  would  have  seen 
you  damned  before  I'd  spoken  to  you,"  returned  the 


394 


Colonel ;  "  but  what  I  want  to  ask  now  is,  what  in 
are  you  doing  ?" 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  business  'tis  of  yours  !" 

"  What  in are  you  doing,  my  boy  ?"  repeated 

the  Colonel. 

There  was  something  ludicrous  in  the  contrast  be 
tween  his  strong  language  and  his  voice,  into  which 
had  come  suddenly  a  tone  of  kindness  which  was 
almost  caressing.  Jerome,,  since  his  father's  day, 
had  heard  few  such  tones  addressed  to  him,  and  his 
proudly  independent  heart  was  softened  and  weak 
ened  by  his  anxiety  and  relief  over  Lucina. 

"  I  am — working  my  fingers  to  the  bone — to  win 
her,  sir/'  he  blurted  out,  brokenly. 

"Does  she  know  it?" 

"Do  you  think  I  would  say  anything  to  her  to 
bind  her  when  I  might  never  be  able  to  marry  her  ?" 
said  Jerome,  with  almost  an  accent  of  wonder. 

The  Colonel  whistled  and  said  no  more,  for  just 
then  Belinda  Lamb  and  Paulina  Maria  came  up,  hold 
ing  their  petticoats  high  out  of  the  slush. 

The  two  men  walked  on  to  Upham  village,  the 
Colonel  straight,  as  if  at  the  head  of  a  battalion, 
though  his  lungs  pumped  hard  at  every  step,  holding 
back  his  square  shoulders,  protruding  his  tight  broad 
cloth,  swinging  his  stick  airily,  Jerome  at  his  side, 
burdened  like  a  peasant,  with  his  sheaf  of  cut  leather, 
but  holding  up  his  head  like  a  prince. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

LUCIRA  and  her  mother  were  away  some  three 
months  ;  it  was  late  spring  when  they  returned.  It 
had  been  told  in  Upham  that  Lucina  was  quite  well, 
but  when  people  saw  her  they  differed  as  to  her  ap 
pearance.  "  She  looks  dreadful  delicate  now,,  ac 
cord  in'  to  my  way  of  thinking"  some  of  the  women, 
spying  sharply  upon  her  from  their  sitting-room  win 
dows  and  their  meeting-house  pews,  reported. 

Jeroino  saw  her  for  the  first  time  after  her  re 
turn  whuii  she  followed  her  father  and  mother  up  the 
aisle  one  Sunday  in  May  when  all  the  orchards  were 
white.  He  thought,  with  a  great  throb  of  joy,  that 
she  looked  quite  well,  that  she  must  be  well.  If  the 
red  and  white  of  her  cheeks  was  a  little  too  clear,  he 
did  not  appreciate  it.  She  was  all  in  white,  like  the 
trees,  with  some  white  blossoms  and  plumes  on  her 
hat. 

After  meeting,  he  lingered  a  little  on  the  porch, 
though  Elmira  was  walking  on,  with  frequent  pauses 
turning  her  head  and  looking  for  him.  However, 
when  Lucina  appeared,  he  did  not  get  the  kindly 
glance  for  which  he  had  hoped.  She  was  talking  so 
busily  with  Mrs.  Doctor  Prescott .  that  she  did  not 
seem  to  see  him,  but  the  color  on  her  cheeks  was 
deeper.  Jerome  joined  his  sister  hastily  and  went 
home  quite  contented,  thinking  Lucina  was  very 
well. 


396 


However,  in  a  few  weeks'  time  he  began  to  hear 
whispers  to  the  contrary.  Sometimes  Lucina  did  not 
go  to  meeting  ;  still,  she  was  seen  out  frequently  rid 
ing  and  walking.  When  Jerome  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  he  strove  to  shut  away  the  knowledge  that  she 
did  not  look  well  from  his  own  consciousness.  But 
when  Lucina  had  been  at  home  six  weeks  she  took  a 
sudden  turn  for  the  better,  which  could  have  been 
dated  accurately  from  a  certain  morning  when  she 
met  Colonel  Jack  Lamson,  she  being  out  riding  and 
he  walking.  He  kept  pace  with  the  slow  amble  of 
her  little  white  horse  for  some  distance,  sometimes 
grasping  the  bridle  and  stopping  in  a  shady  place  to 
talk  more  at  ease. 

When  Lucina  got  home  that  noon  her  mother  no 
ticed  a  change  in  her.  '•'  You  look  better  than  you 
have  done  for  weeks,"  said  she. 

"I  enjoyed  my  ride,"  Lucina  said,  with  a  smile 
and  a  blush  which  her  mother  could  not  fathom. 
The  girl  ate  a  dinner  which  gladdened  her  father's 
heart ;  afterwards  she  went  up  to  her  chamber,  and 
presently  came  down  with  her  hat  on  and  her  silk 
work-bag  on  her  arm. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  one  of  my  chair-covers  over  to 
Aunt  Camilla's,"  said  she. 

"Well,  walk  slowly,"  said  her  mother,  trying  to 
conceal  her  delight,  lest  it  betray  her  past  anxiety. 
Lucina  had  not  touched  her  embroidery  for  weeks, 
nor  stepped  out-of-doors  of  her  own  accord. 

When  she  was  gone  her  father  and  mother  looked 
at  each  other.  "She's  better/' Eben  said,  with  a 
catch  in  his  voice. 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  so  bright  for  weeks,"  replied 
Abigail.  She  had  a  puzzled  look  in  spite  of  her  sat- 


397 


isfaction.  That  night  she  ascertained  through  wari 
est  soundings  that  Lucina  had  not  met  Jerome  when 
riding  in  the  morning.  She  had  suspected  some 
thing,  though  she  scarcely  knew  what.  Lucina7  s  se 
crecy  lately  had  deceived  even  her  mother.  She  had 
begun  to  think  that  the  girl  had  not  been  as  much  in 
earnest  in  her  love  affair  as  she  had  thought,,  and  was 
drooping  from  some  other  cause. 

When  Lucina  revealed  with  innocent  readiness  that 
she  had  met  Colonel  Lamson  that  morning  and  talked 
with  him,  and  with  no  one  else,  Abigail  could  make 
nothing  of  it. 

However,  Lucina  from  that  day  on  improved.  She 
took  up  her  little  tasks  ;  she  seemed  quite  as  former 
ly,  only,  possibly,  somewhat  older  and  more  staid. 

The  Squire  thought  that  her  recovery  was  due  to  a 
certain  bitter  medicine  which  Doctor  Prescott  had 
given  her,  and  often  extolled  it  to  his  wife.  "It  is 
singular  that  medicine  should  work  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  after  she  had  been  taking  it  for  weeks  with 
no  effect/7  thought  Abigail,  but  she  said  nothing. 

One  afternoon,  not  long  after  her  talk  with  Colonel 
Lamson,  Lucina  met  Jerome  face  to  face  in  the  road, 
and  stopped  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  How 
do  you  do  ?"  she  said,  paling  and  blushing,  and  yet 
with  a  sweet  confidence  which  was  new  in  her  man 
ner. 

Jerome  bowed  low,  but  did  not  offer  his  hand. 
She  held  out  hers  persistently. 

"I  can't  shake  hands,"  he  said,  "mine  is  stained 
with  leather ;  it  smells  of  it,  too." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  leather,"  Lucina  returned, 
gently. 

"  I  am,"  Jerome  said,  with  a  defiance   in  which 


398 


there  was  no  bitterness.  Then,  as  Luciua  still  looked 
at  him  and  held  out  her  hand,  with  an  indescribable 
air  of  pretty,  childish  insistence  and  womanly  plead 
ing,  her  blue  eyes  being  sober  almost  to  tears,  he 
motioned  her  to  wait  a  moment,  and  swung  over  the 
fence  and  down  the  road-side,  which  was  just  there 
precipitous,  to  the  brook-bed.  He  got  down  on  his 
knees,  plunged  his  hands  into  the  water,  like  a  gold 
en  net-work  in  the  afternoon  light,  washed  his  hands 
well,  and  returned  to  Lucina.  She  laid  her  little 
hand  in  his,  but  she  shook  her  head,  smiling.  "I 
liked  it  better  the  other  way,"  said  she. 

"  I  couldn't  touch  your  hand  with  mine  like  that." 

"  You  would  give  me  more  if  you  let  me  give  you 
something  sometimes/'  said  Lucina,  with  a  pretty, 
sphinx-like  look  at  him  as  she  drew  her  hand  away. 

Jerome  wondered  what  she  had  meant  after  they 
had  separated.  Acute  as  he  was,  and  of  more  master 
ly  mind  than  she,  he  was  at  a  loss,  for  she  had  touched 
that  fixed  idea  which  sways  us  all  to  greater  or  less 
degree  and  some  to  delusion.  Jerome,  with  his  one 
principle  of  giving,  could  not  even  grasp  a  problem 
which  involved  taking. 

He  puzzled  much  over  it,  then  decided,  not  with 
that  lenient  slighting,  as  in  other  cases  when  woman 
kind  had  vexed  him  with  blind  words,  but  with  a 
fond  reverence,  as  for  some  angelic  mystery,  that  it 
was  because  Lucina  was  a  girl.  "  Maybe  girls  are 
given  to  talking  in  that  riddlesome  kind  of  way," 
thought  Jerome. 

He  was  blissfully  certain  upon  one  point,  at  all 
events.  Lucina's  whole  manner  had  given  evidence 
to  a  confidence  and  understanding  upon  her  part. 

"She  knows  what  I  am  doing/' he  told  himself. 


399 


"  She  knows  how  I  am  working,  and  she  is  content 
ed  and  willing  to  wait.  She  knows,  but  she  isn't 
bound."  Jerome  had  not  dreamed  that  Lucina's  in 
disposition  had  had  aught  to  do  with  distress  of 
mind  upon  his  account. 

Now  he  fell  upon  work  as  if  it  had  been  a  veritable 
dragon  of  old,  which  he  must  slay  to  rescue  his  prin 
cess.  He  toiled  from  earliest  dawn  until  far  dark, 
and  not  with  hands  only.  Still  he  did  not  neglect 
his  gratuitous  nursing  and  doctoring.  He  saved  like 
a  miser,  though  not  at  his  mother's  and  sister's  ex 
pense.  He  himself  would  taste,  in  those  days,  no  but 
ter,  no  sugar,  no  fresh  meat,  no  bread  of  fine  flour, 
but  he  saw  to  it  that  his  mother  and  Elmira  were 
well  provided. 

When  winter  came  again,  he  used  to  hasten  secret 
ly  along  the  road,  not  wishing  to  meet  Lucina  for  a 
new  reason — lest  she  discover  how  thin  his  coat  was 
against  the  wintry  blast,  how  thin  his  shoes  against 
the  snow. 

"I  never  thought  Jerome  was  so  close,"  Elmira 
sometimes  said  to  her  mother. 

"  He  ain't  close,  he's  got  an  object,"  returned  Ann, 
with  a  shrewd,  mysterious  look. 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother  ?" 

"KothinV 

Elmira's  and  Lawrence's  courtship  progressed  after 
the  same  fashion.  If  Doctor  Prescott  suspected  any 
thing  he  made  no  sign.  Lawrence  was  attending  pa 
tients  regularly  with  his  father  and  reading  hard. 

Sometimes,  during  his  occasional  calls  upon  El 
mira,  he  saw  Jerome.  The  two  young  men,  when 
they  met  on  the  road,  exchanged  covertly  cordial 
courtesies ;  a  sort  of  non-committal  friendship  was 


400 


struck  up  between  them.  Lawrence  was  the  means 
of  introducing  Jerome  to  a  new  industry,  of  which  he 
might  otherwise  never  have  heard. 

"Father  and  I  were  on  the  old  Dale  road  this 
morning/' he  said,  "and  there  is  a  fine  cranberry- 
meadow  there  on  the  left,  if  anybody  wants  to  im 
prove  it.  There's  plenty  of  chance  for  drainage  from 
that  little  stream  that  runs  into  Graystone,  and  it's 
sheltered  from  the  frost.  Old  Jonathan  Hawkins 
owns  it ;  we  went  there — his  wife  is  sick — and  he  said 
he  used  to  sell  berries  off  it,  but  it  had  run  down.  He 
said  he'd  be  glad  to  let  somebody  work  it  on  shares, 
just  allowing  him  for  the  use  of  the  land.  He's  too 
old  to  bother  with  it  himself,  and  he  is  pretty  well 
straitened  for  money.  There's  money  in  it,  I  guess." 

Jerome  listened,  and  the  next  day  went  over  to 
Jonathan  Hawkins's  place,  on  the  old  Dale  road,  and 
made  his  bargain.  Some  of  his  work  on  the  cranberry- 
meadow  was  done  before  light,  his  lantern  moving 
about  the  misty  expanse  like  a  marsh  candle.  When 
the  berries  were  ripe  he  employed  children  to  pick 
them,  John  Upham's  among  the  rest.  He  cleared 
quite  a  sum  by  this  venture,  and  added  it  to  his  store. 
In  two  years'  time  he  had  saved  enough  money  for 
I  his  mill,  and  early  in  the  fall  had  the  lumber  all 
ready.  He  had  engaged  one  carpenter  from  Dale  ; 
he  thought  that  he  could  build  the  mill  himself  with 
his  help,  and  that  of  some  extra  hands  for  raising. 

On  the  evening  before  the  day  on  which  he  ex 
pected  to  begin  work  he  went  to  see  Adoniram  Judd. 
The  Judds  lived  off  the  main  road,  in  a  field  con 
nected  with  it  by  a  cart-path.  Their  house,  after  the 
commonest  village  pattern — a  long  cottage  with  two 
windows  on  either  side  of  the  front  door  —  stood 


401 


closely  backed  up  against  a  wood  of  pines  and  larches. 
The  wind  was  cold,  and  the  sound  of  it  in  the  ever 
greens  was  like  a  far-off  halloo  of  winter.  The  house 
had  a  shadowy  effect  in  waning  moonlight,  the  walls 
were  mostly  gray,  being  only  streaked  high  on  the 
sheltered  sides  with  old  white  paint. 

Since  Paulina  Maria  could  not  afford  to  have  a 
coat  of  new  paint  on  her  house,  she  had  a  bitter  am 
bition,  from  motives  of  tidiness  and  pride,  to  at  least 
remove  all  traces  of  the  old.  She  felt  that  the  chief 
sting  of  present  deprivation  lay  in  the  evidence  of  its 
contrast  with  former  plenty.  She  hated  the  image 
in  her  memory  of  her  cottage  glistening  with  the 
white  gloss  of  paint,  and  would  have  weakened  it 
if  she  could.  Paulina  Maria  accordingly,  standing 
on  a  kitchen-chair,  had  scrubbed  with  soap  and  sand 
the  old  paint-streaks  as  high  as  her  long  arms  would 
reach,  and  had,  at  times,  when  his  rheumatism  would 
permit,  set  her  tall  husband  to  the  task.  The  paint, 
which  was  difficult  to  remove  by  any  but  its  natural 
effacers — the  long  courses  of  nature — was  one  of  those 
minor  material  antagonisms  of  life  which  keep  the 
spirit  whetted  for  harder  ones. 

Paulina  Maria  Judd  had  many  such ;  when  the 
pricks  of  fate  were  too  firm  set  against  her  struggling 
feet  she  saved  herself  from  the  despair  of  utter  futility 
by  taking  soap  and  water  and  sand,  and  going  forth 
to  attack  the  paint  on  her  house  walls,  and  also  the 
front  door-stone  worn  in  frequent  hollows  for  the  col 
lection  of  dirt  and  dust. 

This  evening,  when  Jerome  drew  near,  he  saw  a 
long  rise  of  back  over  the  door-step,  and  a  swiftly 
plying  shoulder  and  arm.  Paulina  Maria  looked  up 
without  peasing  when  Jerome  stood  beside  her. 

20 


402 


"You're  working  late/*  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at 
pleasantry. 

"  I  have  to  do  my  cleanin'  late  or  not  at  all,"  re 
plied  Paulina  Maria,  in  her  cold,  calm  voice.  She 
rubbed  more  soap  on  her  cloth. 

"  Uncle  Adoniram  at  home  ?"  Jerome  had  always 
called  Adoniram  "Uncle,"  though  he  was  his  father's 
cousin. 

"Yes." 

"I  want  to  see  him  a  minute  about  something." 

"  You'll  have  to  go  round  to  the  back  door.  I 
can't  have  more  dirt  tracked  into  this  while  it's  wet." 

Jerome  went  around  the  house  to  the  back  door. 
As  he  passed  the  lighted  sitting-room  windows  he 
saw  a  monstrous  shadow  with  steadily  moving  hands 
on  the  curtain.  He  fumbled  his  way  through  the 
lighted  room,  in  which  sat  Adoniram  Judd  closing 
shoes  and  his  son  Henry  knitting.  When  the  door 
opened  Henry,  whose  shadow  Jerome  had  seen  on 
the  window-pane,  looked  up  with  the  vacant  peering 
of  the  blind,  but  his  fingers  never  ceased  twirling 
the  knitting-needles. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  said  Jerome. 

Adoniram  returned  his  salutation  without  rising, 
and  bade  him  take  a  chair.  Henry  spoke  not  at  all, 
and  bent  his  dim  eyes  again  over  his  knitting  without  a 
smile.  Henry  Judd  had  the  lank  height  of  his  father, 
and  his  blunt  elongation  of  face  and  features,  informed 
by  his  mothers  spirit.  The  result  in  his  expression 
was  an  absolute  ferocity  instead  of  severity  of  gloom, 
a  fury  of  resentment  against  his  fate,  instead  of  that 
bitter  leaning  towards- it  which  is  the  acme  of  defiance. 

Henry  Judd  bent  his  heavy,  pale  brows  over  the 
miserable  feminine  work  to  which  he  wa^s  forced, 


403 


His  long  hands  were  white  as  a  girl's,  and  revealed 
their  articulation  as  they  moved ;  his  face,  transpar 
ently  pale,  showed  a  soft  furze  of  young  beard  on 
cheek  and  chin. 

"  Plow  are  you,  Henry  ?"  asked  Jerome. . 

Henry  made  no  reply,  only  scowled  more  gloomily. 
Paulina  Maria's  ardent  severity  of  Christianity  had 
produced  in  her  son,  under  his  first  stress  of  life,  a 
fierce  rebound.  To  no  word  of  Scripture  would 
Henry  Judd  resort  for  comfort ;  he  never  bent  knee 
in  prayer,  and  would  not  be  led,  even  by  his  mother's 
authority,  to  meeting  on  Sunday.  The  voice  of  his 
former  mates,  who  had  with  him  no  sympathy  of  like 
affliction,  filled  him  with  a  sullen  rage  of  injury.  He 
was  somewhat  younger  than  Jerome,  but  had  seemed 
formerly  much  attracted  to  him.  Now  he  had  not 
spoken  to  him  for  a  year. 

Jerome,  when  he  entered,  had  looked  happy  and 
eager,  as  if  he  was  burdened  with  some  pleasant 
news.  Now  his  expression  changed  ;  he  looked  at 
Adoniram,  then  at  Henry,  then  at  Adoniram  again, 
and  motioned  an  inquiry  with  his  lips.  Adoniram 
shook  his  head  sadly. 

Paulina  Maria  came  in  through  the  kitchen,  where 
she  had  left  her  scrubbing  utensils,  got  an  unfinished 
shoe,  and  sat  down  to  her  binding.  She  did  not  no 
tice  Jerome  again,  and  he  sat  frowning  moodily  at 
the  floor. 

"It  is  a  cold  night  for  the  season,"  remarked  Ado 
niram,  at  length,  with  an  uneasy  attempt  at  entertain 
ment,  to  which  Jerome  did  not  respond  with  much 
alacrity.  lie  acted  at  first  as  if  he  did  not  hear,  then 
collected  himself,  said  that  it  was  cold,  and  there 
might  be  a  frost  if  the  wind  went  down,  and  rose. 


404 


"  You  ain't  goin'  so  soon  ?"  asked  Adoniram,  with 
slow  surprise. 

"I  only  ran  over  for  a  minute;  I've  got  some  work 
to  do,"  muttered  Jerome,  and  went  out. 

He  went  along  the  ridgy  cart-path  across  the  field  to 
the  road,  but  when  he  reached  it  he  stopped  short.  He 
stood  for  ten  minutes  or  more,  motionless,  thinking 
so  intently  that  it  was  as  if  his  body  stood  aside  from 
his  swift  thought,  then  he  returned  to  the  Judd  house. 

He  went  around  to  the  back  door,  but  when  he 
reached  it  he  stopped  again.  After  a  little  he  crept 
noiselessly  back  to  the  cart-path,  and  so  to  the  road 
again. 

But  it  was  as  if,  when  he  reached  the  road,  he  met 
some  unseen  and  mighty  arm  of  denial  which  barred 
it.  He  stopped  there  for  the  second  time.  Then  he 
went  back  again  to  the  Judd  house,  and  this  time 
when  he  reached  the  door  he  opened  it  and  went  in. 

When  he  entered  the  sitting-room,  where  Adoniram 
and  Paulina  Maria  and  Henry  were,  they  all  looked 
up  in  astonishment. 

"Forgot  anything  ?"  inquired  Adoniram. 

"Yes/'  replied  Jerome.  Then  he  went  on,  speak 
ing  fast,  in  a  strained  voice,  which  he  tried  hard  to 
make  casual.  "There  was  something  I  wanted  to 
say.  I've  been  thinking  about  Henry's  eyes.  If — 
you  want  to  take  him  to  Boston,  to  that  doctor,  I've 
got  the  money.  I've  got  five  hundred  dollars  you're 
welcome  to.  I  believe  you  said  it  would  take  that/' 
He  looked  straight  at  Paulina  Maria  as  he  spoke, 
and  she  dropped  her  work  and  looked  at  him. 

Adoniram  made  a  faint,  gasping  noise,  then  sat 
staring  at  them  both.  Henry  started,  but  knitted  on 
as  remorselessly  as  his  own  fate. 


405 


"  How  did  you  come  by  so  mucli  money  ?"  asked 
Paulina  Maria,  in  her  pure,  severe  voice. 

"I  saved  it  from  my  earnings/' 

"What  for?" 

"You'll  be  welcome  to  take  it,  and  use  it  for 
Henry." 

"That  ain't  answering  my  question." 

Jerome  was  silent. 

"You  needn't  answer  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said 
Paulina  Maria,  "for  I  know.  You've  kept  it  dark 
from  everybody  but  Lawyer  Means  and  your  mother 
and  Elmira,  but  your  mother  told  me  a  year  ago.  I 
haven't  told  a  soul.  You've  been  saving  up  this 
money  to  build  a  mill  with  and — I've  been  over  to 
your  mother's  this  afternoon — you  are  going  to  start 
it  to-morrow." 

"I  am  not  obliged  to  start  it  to-morrow,"  said  Je 
rome. 

"You're  obliged  to  for  all  me.  Do  you  think  I'll 
take  that  money  ?" 

Jerome  turned  to  Henry.  "Henry,  it's  for  you, 
and  not  your  mother,"  said  he.  "  Will  you  take  it  ?" 

Henry,  still  knitting,  shook  his  head. 

"I  tell  you  there  is  no  hurry  about-the  mill.  I 
can  wait  and  earn  more.  I  give  it  to  you  freely." 

"  We  shouldn't  take  it  unless  I  give  you  a  note  of 
hand,  Jerome,"  Adoniram  interposed,  in  a  quavering 
voice. 

Paulina  Maria  looked  at  her  husband.  "What  is 
your  note  of  hand  worth  ?"  she  asked,  sternly. 

"Won't  you  take  it,  Henry  ?  I've  always  thought 
a  good  deal  of  you,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
blind,"  Jerome  said. 

Henry  shook  his  head;  there  was  an  awful  inexo- 


406 


rableness  with  himself  displayed  in  his  steady  knit 
ting. 

"  There  are  things  worse  than  blindness,,"  said 
Paulina  Maria.  "  Nobody  shall  sacrifice  himself  for 
my  son.  If  our  own  prayers  and  sacrifices  are  not 
sufficient,,  it  is  the  will  of  the  Lord  that  he  should 
suffer,  and  he  will  suffer/' 

"  Take  it,  Henry/'  pleaded  Jerome,,  utterly  disre 
garding  her. 

"  Would  you  take  it  in  my  son's  place  ?"  demanded 
Paulina  Maria,  suddenly.  She  looked  fixedly  at  Je 
rome.  "Answer  me/7  said  she. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  !"  Jerome  cried, 
angrily.  "He  is  going  blind,  and  this  money  will 
cure  him.  If  you  are  his  mother — " 

"Don't  ask  anybody  to  take  even  a  kindness  that 
you  wouldn't  take  yourself/'  said  Paulina  Maria. 

Jerome  flung  out  of  the  room  without  another 
word.  When  he  got  out-of-doors,  he  found  Adoni- 
ram  at  his  elbow. 

"I  want  ye  to  know  that  I'm  much  obliged  to  ye, 
J'rome/'  he  whispered.  He  felt  for  Jerome's  hand 
and  shook  it.  "  Thank  ye,  thank  ye,  J'rome/'  he 
repeated,  br&kenly. 

"I  don't  want  any  thanks/'  replied  Jerome. 
"Can't  you  take  the  money  and  make  Henry  go 
with  you  to  Boston  and  see  the  doctor,  if  she  won't  ?" 

"It's  no  use  goin'  agin  her,  J'rome/' 

"I  believe  she's  crazy." 

"No,  she  ain't,  J'rome — no,  she  ain't.  She  knows 
how  you  saved  up  that  money,  an'  she  won't  take  it. 
She's  made  so  she  can't  take  anybody  else's  sufferiii' 
to  ease  hers,  an'  so's  Henry— he's  like  his  mother." 

"  Can't  you  make  her  take  it,  Uncle  Adoniram  ?" 


407 


"She  can't  make  herself  take  it;  but  I'm  jest  as 
much  obliged  to  ye,  J'rome." 

Adoniram  was  about  to  re-enter  the  house.  "  She'll 
wonder  where  I  be/'  he  muttered,  but  Jerome  stopped 
him.  "If  I  do  begin  work  on  the  mill  to-morrow/*' 
said  he,  "  I  shaVt  be  able  to  fetch  and  carry  to  Dale, 
nor  to  do  as  much  work  in  Uncle  Ozias's  shop.  Do 
you  suppose  you  can  help  out  some  ?" 

"I  can,  if  I'm  as  well  as  I  be  now,  J'rome." 

"  Of  course,  you  can  earn  more  than  you  do  now," 
said  Jerome.  That  was  really  the  errand  upon  which 
he  had  come  to  the  Judds  that  evening.  He  had 
been  quite  elated  with  the  thought  of  the  pleasure  it 
would  give  them,  when  the  possibility  of  larger  ser 
vice — Henry's  cure  by  means  of  his  cherished  hoard 
— had  suddenly  come  to  him. 

He  arranged  ivith  Adoniram  Judd  that  he  should 
go  to  the  shop  the  next  morning,  then  bade  him 
good-night,  and  turned  his  own  steps  thither. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  Ozias  Lamb's  shop,  its 
window  was  throwing  a  long  beam  of  light  across  the 
field  creeping  with  dry  grass  before  the  frosty  wind. 
When  Jerome  opened  the  door,  he  started  to  see 
Ozias  seated  upon  his  bench,  his  head  bowed  over 
and  hidden  upon  his  idle  hands.  Jerome  closed  the 
door,  then  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  staring  at  his 
uncle's  dejected  figure.  "What's  the  matter,  Uncle 
Ozias  ?"  he  asked. 

Ozias  did  not  speak,  but  made  a  curious,  repellent 
motion  with  his  bowed  shoulders. 

"Are  you  sick?" 

Again  Ozias  seemed  to  shunt  him  out  of  the  place 
with  that  speaking  motion  of  his  shoulder. 

Jerome  went  close  to  him.     "  Uncle  Ozias,  I  want 


408 


to  know  what  is  the  matter  ?"  he  said,  then  started, 
for  suddenly  Ozias  raised  his  face  and  looked  at  him, 
his  eyes  wild  under  his  shaggy  grizzle  of  hair,  his 
mouth  twisted  in  a  fierce  laugh.  "Want  to  know, 
do  ye  ?"  he  cried— "want  to  know  ?  Well,  I'll  tell 
ye.  Look  at  me  hard ;  I'm  a  sight.  Look  at  me. 
Here's  a  man,  'most  threescore  years  and  ten,  who's 
been  willin'  to  work,  an'  has  worked,  an'  'ain't  been  con 
sidered  underwitted,  who's  been  struggling  to  keep  a 
roof  over  his  head  an'  his  wife's,  an'  bread  in  their  two 
mouths  ;  jest  that,  no  more.  He  'ain't  had  any  chil 
dren  ;  nobody  but  himself  an'  his  wife,  an'  she  con 
tented  with  next  to  nothin'.  Jest  a  roof  an'  bread 
for  them — jest  that;  an'  he  an  able-bodied  man,  that's 
worked  like  a  dog — jest  that ;  an'  he's  got  to  give  it 
up.  Look  at  him,  he's  a  sight  for  wise  men  an'  fools." 
Ozias  laughed. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Uncle  Ozias  ?" 
"Simon  Basset  is  goin'  to  foreclose  to-morrow." 
Jerome  stared  at  his  uncle  incredulously.     "  Why, 
I  thought  you  had  earned  plenty  to  keep  the  interest 
up  of  late  years  !"  he  said. 

"  There  was  more  than  present  interest  to  pay  ; 
there  was  back  interest,  and  I've  been  behind  on 
taxes,  and  there  was  an  old  doctor  bill,  when  I  had 
the.  fever  ;  an'  that  wa'n't  all — I  never  told  ye,  nor 
anybody.  I  was  fool  enough  to  sign  a  note  for 
George  Henry  Green,  in  Westbrook,  some  years  ago. 
He  come  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  said  he  wouldn't 
care  so  much  if  it  wa'n't  for  his  wife  an'  children; 
he'd  got  to  raise  the  money,  an'  couldn't  get  nobody 
to  sign  his  note.  I  lost  every  dollar  of  it.  It's  been 
all  I  could  do  to  pay  up,  an'  I  couldn't  keep  even 
with  the  interest.  I  knew  it  was  comin'." 


409 


"  How  much  interest  do  you  owe  ?"  asked  Jerome, 
in  an  odd  voice.  He  was  very  pale. 

"Two  hundred  an'  seventy  dollars — it's  twelve  per 
cent." 

"And  yon  can't  raise  it  ?" 

"  Might  as  well  try  to  raise  the  dead/' 

"Well,  I  can  let  you  have  it,"  said  Jerome. 

"  You  ?" 

"  Yes." 

His  uncle  looked  at  him  with  his  sharp,  strained 
eyes ;  then  he  made  a  hoarse  noise,  between  a  sob 
and  a  cough.  "Rob  you  of  that  money  you've  been 
savin'  to  build  your  mill !  We'll  take  to  the  woods 
first !"  he  cried. 

"I've  saved  a  good  deal  more  than  two  hundred 
and  seventy  dollars." 

"  You  want  every  dollar  of  it  for  your  mill.  Don't 
talk  to  me." 

"I'd  want  every  dollar  if  I  was  going  to  build  it, 
but  I  am  not,"  said  Jerome. 

"What  d'ye  mean  ?  Ain't  ye  goin'  to  start  it  to 
morrow  ?" 

"  No,  I've  decided  not  to." 

"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  I'm  going  to  wait  until  the  Dale  railroad  seems 
a  little  nearer.  I  shouldn't  have  much  business  for 
the  mill  now  if  I  built  it,  and  there's  no  use  in  its 
standing  rotting.  I'm  going  to  wait  a  little." 

Poor  Ozias  Lamb  looked  at  him  with  his  keen  old 
eyes,  which  were,  perhaps,  dulled  a  little  by  the  self 
ishness  of  his  sore  distress.  "D'ye  mean  what  ye 
say,  J'rome  ?"  he  asked,  wistfully,  in  a  tone  that  was 
new  to  him. 

"Yes,  I  do ;  you  can  have  the  money  as  well  as  not." 


410 


"  I'll  give  ye  my  note,  an'  ye  can  have  this  piece 
of  land  an'  the  shop — this  ain't  mortgaged — as  se 
curity,  an'  I'll  pay  ye  —  fair  per  cent.,"  Ozias  said, 
hesitatingly. 

"  All  right,"  returned  Jerome. 

"An',"  Ozias  faltered,  "I'll  work  my  fingers  to 
the  bone  ;  I'll  steal — but  you  shall  have  your  money 
back  before  you  are  ready  to  begin  the  mill." 

"  That  may  be  quite  a  while,"  Jerome  said,  laugh 
ing  as  openly  as  a  child.  His  uncle  suspected  nothing, 
though  once  he  could  scarcely  have  been  deceived. 

"I've  been  round  to  Uncle  Adoniram's  to-night/7 
Jerome  added,  "  to  get  him  to  come  here  to-morrow 
and  help  with  that  lot  of  shoes.  I'm  going  to  take 
up  with  an  offer  I've  had  to  cut  some  wood  on  shares. 
I  think  I  can  make  some  money  out  of  it,  and  it'll 
be  a  change  from  so  much  shoemaking,  for  a  while." 

"  You  never  was  the  build  for  a  shoemaker/'  said 
his  uncle. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

JEROME  gave  his  mother  the  same  reason  which  he 
had  given  Ozias  for  the  postponement  of  the  mill. 

"  It  seems  to  me  it's  dreadful  queer  you  didn't  find 
out  it  waVt  best  till  the  day  before  you  were  goin' 
to  start  work  on  it,"  said  she,  but  she  suspected 
nothing. 

As  for  Elmira,  she  manifested  little  interest  in  that 
or  anything  else.  She  was  not  well  that  autumn. 
Elmira's  morbidly  sensitive  temperament  was  work 
ing  her  harm  under  the  trial  of  circumstances.  Ex 
treme  love,  sensitiveness,  and  self -depreciation  in 
some  natures  produce  jealousy  as  unfailingly  as 
a  chemical  combination  its  given  result.  Elmira, 
though  constantly  spurring  herself  into  trust  in  her 
lover,  was  again  jealous  of  him  and  Lucina  Merritt. 

Lawrence  had  been  seen  riding  and  walking  with 
Lucina.  He  had  called  at  the  Squire's  on  several 
evenings,  when  Elmira  had  hoped  that  he  might 
visit  her.  She  was  too  proud  to  mention  the  matter 
to  Lawrence,  but  she  began  to  be  galled  into  active 
resentment  by  her  clandestine  betrothal.  Why  should 
not  everybody  know  that  she  had  a  beau  like  other 
girls  ;  that  Lawrence  was  hers,  not  Lucina  Mer- 
ritt's  ?  Elmira  wished,  recklessly  and  defiantly,  that 
people  could  find  out  every  time  that  Lawrence  came 
to  see  her.  Whenever  she  heard  a  hint  to  the  effect 
that  he  was  attentive  to  her,  she  gave  it  significance 


412 


by  her  bearing.  Possibly  in  that  way  she  herself  pre 
cipitated  matters. 

She  had  not  been  feeling  well  for  some  time,  hav 
ing  every  afternoon  a  fever -ache  in  her  limbs  and, 
back,  and  a  sensation  of  weariness  which  almost  pros 
trated  her,  when,  one  evening,  Lawrence  came,  and, 
an  hour  afterwards,  his  father. 

Elmira  never  forgot,  as  long  as  she  lived,  Doctor 
Prescott's  handsome,  coldly  wrathful  old  face,  as  he 
stood  in  the  parlor  door  looking  at  her  and  Law 
rence.  He  had  come  straight  in,  without  knocking. 
Mrs.  Edwards  had  gone  to  bed,  Jerome  was  not  at 
home. 

Lawrence  had  been  sitting  on  the  sofa  with  Elmira, 
his  arm  around  her  waist.  He  arose  with  her,  still 
clasping  her,  and  confronted  his  father.  "Well, 
father,"  he  said,  with  an  essay  at  his  gay  laugh, 
though  he  blushed  hotly,  and  then  was  pale.  As  for 
Elmira,  she  would  have  slipped  to  the  floor  had  it 
not  been  for  her  lover's  arm. 

Doctor  Prescott  stood  looking  at  them. 

"Father,  this  is  the  girl  I  am  going  to  marry," 
Lawrence  said,  finally,  with  a  proudly  defiant  air. 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  doctor;  "but  when  you 
marry  her,  it  will  be  without  one  penny  from  me,  in 
realization  or  anticipation.  You  will  have  only  what 
your  wife  brings  you.'' 

"I  can  support  my  wife  my  self,  "returned  Lawrence, 
with  a  look  which  was  the  echo  of  his  father's  own. 

"So  you  can,  before  long,  at  the  expense  of  your 
father's  practice,  which  he  himself  has  given  you  the 
ability  to  undermine,"  said  the  doctor,  in  his  cold  voice. 
"  I  bid  you  both  good-evening.  You,  my  son,  can 
come  home  within  a  half-hour,  or  you  will  find  the 


413 


doors  locked."  With  that  the  doctor  went  out; 
there  was  a  creak  of  cramping  wheels,  and  a  lan 
tern-flash  in  the  window,  then  a  roll,,  and  clatter 
of  hoofs. 

Elmira  showed  more  decision  of  spirit  than  her 
lover  had  dreamed  was  in  her.  She  drove  him 
away,  in  spite  of  his  protestations.  "All  is  over  be 
tween  us,  if  you  don't  go  at  once — at  once,"  said  she, 
with  a  strange,  hysterical  force  which  intimidated 
him. 

"Elmira,  you  know  I  will  be  true  to  you,  dear. 
You  know  I  will  marry  you,  in  spite  of  father  and 
the  whole  world/'  vowed  Lawrence ;  but  he  went  at 
her  insistence,  not  knowing,  indeed,  what  else  to  do. 

The  next  day  Elmira  wrote  him  a  letter  setting  him 
free.  When  she  had  sent  the  letter  she  sat  working 
some  hours  longer,  then  she  went  up-stairs  and  to 
bed.  That  night  she  was  in  a  high  fever. 

Lawrence  came,  but  she  did  not  know  it.  He  had 
a  long  talk  with  Jerome,  and  almost  a  quarrel.  The 
poor  young  fellow,  in  his  wrath  and  shame  of  thwart 
ed  manliness,  would  fain  have  gone  to  that  excess  of 
honor  which  defeats  its  own  ends.  He  insisted  upon 
marrying  Elmira  out  of  hand.  "  Fll  never  give  her 
up — never,  I'll  tell  you  that.  I've  told  father  so  to 
his  face  I"  cried  Lawrence.  When  he  went  up-stairs 
with  Jerome  and  found  Elmira  in  the  uneasy  stupor 
of  fever,  he  seemed  half  beside  himself. 

"  I'm  to  blame,  father's  to  blame.  Oh,  poor  girl- 
poor  girl,"  he  groaned  out,  when  he  and  Jerome  were 
down-stairs  again. 

That  night  Lawrence  had  a  stormy  scene  with  his 
father.  He  burst  upon  him  in  his  study  and  upbraid 
ed  him  to  his  face.  "  You've  almost  killed  her;  she's 


414 


got  a  fever.  If  she  lives  through  it  I  am  going  to 
marry  her  !"  he  shouted. 

The  doctor  was  pounding  some  drugs  in  his  mortar. 
He  brought  the  pestle  down  with  a  dull  thud,  as  he 
replied,  without  looking  at  his  son.  "  You  will  marry 
her  or  not,  as  you  choose,  my  son.  I  have  not  for 
bidden  you ;  I  have  simply  stated  the  conditions,  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned." 

The  next  morning,  before  light,  Lawrence  was  over 
to  see  Elmira.  After  breakfast  his  mother  came  and 
remained  the  greater  part  of  the  day.  Elmira  grew 
worse  rapidly.  Since  Doctor  Prescott  was  out  of  the 
question,  under  the  circumstances,  a  physician  from 
Westbrook  was  summoned.  Elmira  was  ill  several 
weeks  ;  Lawrence  haunted  the  house  ;  his  mother  and 
Paulina  Maria  did  much  of  the  nursing,  as  Mrs.  Ed 
wards  was  unable.  Neither  Lawrence  nor  Mrs. 
Prescott  ever  fairly  knew  if  Doctor  Prescott  was 
aware  that  she  nursed  the  sick  girl.  If  he  was,  he 
made  no  sign.  He  also  said  nothing  more  to  Lawrence 
about  his  visits. 

It  was  nearly  spring  before  Elmira  was  quite  recov 
ered.  Her  illness  had  cost  so  much  that  Jerome  had 
not  been  able  to  make  good  the  deficit  occasioned  by 
his  loan  to  Ozias  Lamb,  as  he  would  otherwise  have 
been.  He  postponed  his  mill  again  until  autumn, 
and  worked  harder  than  ever.  That  summer  he  tried 
the  experiment  of  raising  some  of  the  fine  herbs,  such 
as  summer  savory,  sweet-marjoram,  and  thyme,  for 
the  market.  Elmira  helped  in  that.  There  is  al 
ways  a  relief  to  the  soul  in  bringing  it  into  intimate 
association  with  the  uniformity  of  nature.  Elmini, 
bending  over  the  bed  of  herbs,  with  the  sweet  breath 
of  them  in  her  nostrils,  gained  a  certain  quiet  in  her 


415 


unrest  of  youth  and  passion.  It  was  as  if  she  kept 
step  with  a  mightier  movement  which  tended  towards 
eternity.  She  had  persisted,  in  spite  of  Lawrence's 
entreaties,  in  her  determination  that  he  should  cease 
all  attention  to  her.  He  had  gone  away,  scarcely 
understanding,  almost  angry,  with  her,  but  she  was 
firm,  with  a  firmness  which  she  herself  had  not 
known  to  be  within  her  capacity. 

She  looked  older  that  summer,  and  there  was  a 
staidness  in  her  manner.  She  always  worked  over 
the  herb -beds  with  her  back  to  the  road,  lest  by 
any  chance  she  should  see  Lawrence  riding  by  with 
Lucina. 

"  I  know  what  you're  working  so  extra  hard  for," 
she  told  Jerome  one  day,  with  wistful,  keen  eyes 
upon  his  face. 

"I've  always  worked  hard,  haven't  I  ?"  he  said, 
evasively. 

"Yes,  you've  worked  hard,  but  this  is  extra  hard. 
Jerome  Edwards,  you  think,  maybe,  if  you  can  earn 
enough,  you  can  marry  her  by-and-by." 

Jerome  colored,  but  he  met  his  sister's  gaze  freely. 
"  Well,  suppose  I  do,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  Jerome,  $o  you  suppose  it's  any  use — do  you 
suppose  she  will  ?"  Elmira  cried  out,  in  a  kind  of  in 
credulous  pity. 

"  I  know  she  will." 

"Did  she  say  so — did  she  say  she  would  wait  ?  Oh, 
Jerome  !" 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  bind  her  to  wait  ?" 

"But  she  must  have  owned  she  liked  you.  Did 
she  ?" 

"That's  between  her  and  me." 

"Don't  you  feel  afraid  that  she  may  turn  to  some- 


416 


body  else  ?  Don't  you,  Jerome  ?"  Elmira  questioned 
him  with  a  feverish  eagerness  which  puzzled  him. 

"Not  with  her/'  he  answered. 

Elmira  felt  comforted  by  his  faith  in  a  way  which 
he  did  not  suspect.  It  strengthened  her  own.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  Lawrence  would  not  care  for  Lucina ;  per 
haps  he  would  work  and  wait  for  her,  as,  indeed,  he 
had  vowed  to  do.  After  that  Elmira  worked  over  the 
herb-beds  with  her  face  to  the  road.  When  Belinda 
Lamb  reported  that  Lawrence  and  Lucina  had  been 
out  riding,  and  Ann  said,  with  a  bitter  screw  of  her 
nervous  little  face,  "Fish  in  shalloAV  waters  bites 
easy,  especially  when  there's  gold  on  the  hook,"  she 
was  not  much  disturbed. 

Ann  fully  abetted  her  daughter  in  her  resolution 
to  dismiss  her  suitor,  after  his  father's  manifestation. 
"  I  guess  there's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  was 
caught,"  said  she,  "and  I  guess  Doctor  Seth  Pres- 
cott  '11  find  out  that.  If  there's  them  he  don't  think 
fit  to  tie  his  son's  shoestrings,  there's  them  that  feels 
above  tyin'  'em." 

In  September  Jerome  began  work  on  his  mill.  He 
had  never  been  so  hopeful  in  his  life.  It  cost  him 
more  self-denial  not  to  go  to  Lucina  and  speak  out 
his  hope  than  ever  before.  He  queried  with  himself 
if  he  could  not  go,  then  shut  his  heart,  opening  like 
a  mouth  of  hunger  for  happiness,  hard  against  it. 
"The  mill  may  burn  down  ;  they  may  not  buy  the 
logs.  I've  got  to  wait,"  he  told  himself. 

By  early  spring  the  mill  was  in  foil  operation.  The 
railroad  through  Dale  was  surveyed,  and  work  was  to 
be  commenced  on  it  the  next  fall,  and  Jerome  had 
the  contract  for  the  sleepers.  Again  he  wondered  if 
he  should  not  go  to  Lucina  and  tell  her,  and  again  he 


417 


resolved  to  wait.  He  had  made  up  Ms  mind  that  he 
would  not  speak  until  a  fixed  income  was  guaranteed 
by  at  least  a  year's  test. 

"  I  wish  they  would  put  railroads  through  for  us 
every  year,*  he  said  to  the  man  whom  he  had  secured 
to  help  him.  He  was  an  elderly  man  from  Granby, 
who  had  owned  a  mill  there,  which  had  been  sold 
three  years  before.  He  had  a  tidy  sum  in  bank,  and 
people  wondered  at  his  going  to  work  again. 

"  I  'ain't  got  so  very  many  years  to  work,*'  he  told 
Jerome  when  he  sought  to  hire  him,  "an'  I  thought 
Fd  give  up  for  good  three  years  ago ;  thought  I'd 
take  it  easy,  an'  have  a  comfortable  old  age.  I  got 
fifty  dollars  more'n  I  expected  when  I  sold  out  the 
mill,  an'  I  laid  it  out  for  extras  for  mother  an'  me ; 
bought  her  a  sofy  an'  stuffed  rockin'-chair,  a  new  set 
of  dishes,  an'  some  teaspoons,  an'  some  strainers  for 
the  windows  agin  fly-time.  '  Now,  mother/  says  I, 
( we'll  jest  lay  down  in  the  daytime,  an'  rock,  an'  eat 
with  our  new  spoons  out  of  our  new  dishes,  an'  keep 
the  flies  out,  the  rest  of  our  lives.' 

"  But  mother  she  looked  real  sober.  f  What's  the 
matter  ?'  says  I. 

"  '  No  thin'/  says  she,  '  only  I  was  thinkin'  about 
your  father.' 

"  '  What  about  him  ?'  says  I. 

" '  Nothin'/  says  she,  '  only  I  remember  mother's 
say  in',  when  he  quit  work,  he  wouldn't  live  long. 
She  always  said  it  was  a  bad  sign.' 

"That  settled  me.  I  remembered  father  didn't 
live  six  months  after  he  quit  work,  an'  grandfather 
before  him,  an'  I'd  every  reason  to  think  it  run  in  the 
family.  So  says  I  to  mother,  '  Well,  I'm  havin'  too 
good  a  time  livin'  to  throw  it  away  settin'  in  rockin'- 

27 


418 


chairs  an'  layin'  down  in  the  daytime.  If  work  is 
goin'  to  keep  up  the  picnic  a  while  longer,  why,  I'm 
goin'  to  work/ 

"  So  the  very  next  day  I  hired  out  to  the  man  that 
bought  my  mill,  an'  Hiere  I've  worked  ever  since,  till 
now,  when  he's  got  his  son  he  wants  to  give  the  job 
to.  Fll  go  with  ye,  an'  welcome,  for  a  spell.  Moth 
er  ain't  afeard  to  stay  alone,  an'  I'll  go  home  over 
Sundays.  Ye  need  somebody  who  knows  something 
about  a  mill,  if  ye're  green  at  it  yourself." 

This  man,  whose  name  was  Martin  Cheeseman,  was 
hoary  with  age,  but  far  from  being  past  his  prime 
of  work.  He  had  a  large  and  shambling  strength 
of  body  and  limb,  like  an  old  bear,  and  his  sinews 
were,  of  their  kind,  as  tough  as  those  of  the  ancient 
woods  which  he  severed. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  mill  had  been  in  operation 
about  two  months,  Squire  Eben  Merritt,  John  Jen 
nings,  and  Colonel  Lamson  came  through  from  the 
thick  woods  into  the  clearing.  The  Squire  bore  his 
fishing-rod  and  dangled  a  string  of  fine  trout.  John 
Jennings  had  a  book  under  his  arm. 

When  they  emerged  into  the  clearing,  the  Colonel 
sat  down  upon  a  stump  and  wiped  his  red  face.  The 
veins  in  his  forehead  and  neck  were  swollen  purple, 
and  he  breathed  hard.  "  It's  hotter  than  seven  dev 
ils,"  he  gasped. 

"  Devils  are  supposed  to  be  acclimated,"  John 
Jennings  remarked,  softly.  He  stood  looking  about 
him.  The  Squire  had  gone  into  the  mill,  where  Je 
rome  was  at  work. 

Martin  Cheeseman  was  outside,  shearing  from 
lengths  of  logs  some  last  straggling  twigs  before  they 
were  taken  into  the  mill  for  sawing.  The  old  man's 


419 


hat  had  lost  its  brim,  and  sat  back  on  his  head  like  a 
crown ;  some  leaves  were  tangled  in  his  thick,  gray 
fleece  of  hair  and  beard.  His  shaggy  arms  were  bare; 
he  wielded  his  hatchet  with  energy,  grimacing  at 
every  stroke. 

"  He  might  be  the  god  Pan  putting  his  fallen  trees 
out  of  their  last  agonies,"  said  Jennings,  dreamily, 
and  yet  half  laughing,  as  if  at  himself,  for  the  fancy. 

The  Colonel  only  groaned  in  response.  He  fanned 
himself  with  his  hat.  Jennings  stood,  backed  up 
against  a  tree,  surveying  things,  his  fine,  worn  face 
full  of  a  languid  humor  and  melancholy. 

The  place  looked  like  a  sylvan  slaughter  -  field. 
The  ground  was  thick -set  with  the  mangled  and 
hacked  stumps  of  great  chestnut-trees,  and  strewn 
with  their  lifeless  limbs  and  trunks,  as  with  mem 
bers  of  corpses  ;  every  stump,  as  Jennings  surveyed 
it  with  fanciful  gaze,  looked  with  its  spread  of  sup 
porting  roots  upon  the  surface,  curiously  like  a  great 
foot  of  a  woody  giant,  which  no  murderer  could  tear 
loose  from  its  hold  in  its  native  soil. 

All  the  clearing  Avas  surrounded  with  thickets  of 
light-green  foliage,  amidst  which  clouds  of  white  alder 
unfolded  always  in  the  soft  wind  with  new  surfaces 
of  sweetness. 

However,  all  the  fragrant  evidence  of  the  new 
leaves  and  blossoms  was  lost  and  overpowered  here. 
One  perceived  only  that  pungent  aroma  of  death 
which  the  chestnut-trees  gave  out  from  their  fresh 
wounds  and  their  spilled  sap  of  life.  One  also  could 
scarcely  hear  the  spring  birds  for  the  broad  whir  of 
the  saw-mill,  which  seemed  to  cut  the  air  as  well  as 
the  logs.  Even  the  gurgling  rush  of  the  brook  was 
lost  in  it,  but  not  the  roar  of  water  over  the  dam. 


420 


The  Squire  came  out  of  the  mill,  whither  he  had 
been  to  say  a  good  word  to  Jerome,  and  stood  by 
Martin  Cheeseman.  "  Lord,"  he  said,  "  think  of  the 
work  those  trees  had  to  grow,  and  the  fight  they 
made  for  their  lives,  and  then  along  comes  a  man 
with  an  axe,  and  breaks  in  a  minute  what  he  can 
never  make  nor  mend !  What  d'ye  mean  by  it,  eh?" 

Martin  Cheeseman  looked  at  him  with  shrewd, 
twinkling  eyes.  He  was  waist-deep  in  the  leafy  twigs 
and  boughs  as  in  a  nest.  "Well,"  he  said,  "we're 
goin'  to  turn  'em  into  somethin'  of  more  account  than 
trees,  an'  that's  railroad-sleepers ;  an'  that's  somethin' 
the  way  Natur'  herself  manages,  I  reckon.  Look  at 
the  caterpillar  an'  the  butterfly.  Mebbe  a  railroad- 
sleeper  is  a  butterfly  of  a  tree,  lookin'  at  it  one  way." 

"  That's  all  very  well,  but  how  do  you  suppose  the 
tree  feels  ?"  said  the  Squire,  hotly. 

"  Not  bein'  a  tree,  an'  never  havin'  been  a  tree,  so's 
to  remember  it,  I  ain't  able  to  say,"  returned  the  old 
man,  in  a  dry  voice;  "but,  mebbe,  lookin'  at  it  on 
general  principles,  it  ain't  no  more  painful  for  a  tree 
to  be  cut  down  into  a  railroad-sleeper  than  it  is  for 
a  man  to  be  cut  down  into  an  angel." 

John  Jennings  laughed. 

"  You'd  make  a  good  lawyer  on  the  defence,"  said 
the  Squire,  good-naturedly,  "  but,  by  the  Lord  Harry, 
if  all  the  trees  of  the  earth  were  mine,  men  might  live 
in  tents  and  travel  in  caravans  till  doomsday  for  all 
I'd  cut  one  down  !" 

The  Colonel  and  Jennings  did  not  go  into  the  mill, 
but  they  nodded  and  sang  out  good-naturedly  to  Je 
rome  as  they  passed.  He  could  not  leave— he  had 
an  extra  man  to  feed  the  saw  that  day,  and  had  been 
rushing  matters  since  daybreak— but  he  looked  out 


421 


at  them  with  a  radiant  face  from  his  noisy  interior, 
full  of  the  crude  light  of  fresh  lumber  and  sawdust. 

The  Squire's  friendly  notice  had  pleased  his  very 
soul. 

''That's  a  smart  boy/' panted  the  Colonel,  when 
they  had  passed. 

"Yes,  sir;  he's  the  smartest  boy  in  this  town," 
assented  the  Squire,  with  a  nod  of  enthusiasm. 

Not  long  after  they  emerged  from  the  woods  into 
the  road  they  reached  Jennings's  house,  and  he  left 
his  friends. 

The  Colonel  lived  some  quarter  of  a  mile  farther 
on.  He  had  reached  his  gate,  when  he  said,  abruptly, 
to  the  Squire,  "  Look  here,  Eben,  you  remember  a 
talk  we  had  once  about  Jerome  Edwards  and  your 
girl  ?" 

The  Squire  stared  at  him.     "  Yes  ;  why  ?" 

"Nothing,  only  seeing  him  just  now  set  me  to 
wondering  if  you  were  still  of  the  same  mind  about 
it." 

"  If  being  willing  that  Lucina  should  have  the  man 
she  sets  her  heart  on  is  the  same  mind,  of  course  I 
am  ;  but,  good  Lord,  Jack,  that's  all  over!  He  hasn't 
been  to  the  house  for  a  year,  and  Lucina  never  thinks 
of  him  I" 

Colonel  Lamson  laughed  wheezily.  "  Well,  that's 
all  I  wanted  to  know,  Eben." 

"  What  made  you  ask  me  that  ?"  asked  the  Squire, 
suspiciously. 

"  Nothing  ;  seeing  Jerome  and  his  mill  brought  it 
to  mind.  AVell,  I'll  be  along  to-night." 

ie  That's  all  over,"  the  Squire  called  out  again  to  the 
Colonel,  going  slowly  up  the  hill  to  the  house  door. 
However,  when  he  got  home,  he  questioned  Abigail. 


422 


"I  haven't  heard  Lucina  mention  Jerome  Ed- 
wards's  name  for  months,"  said  she,  "and  he  never 
comes  here  ;  but  she  seems  perfectly  contented  and 
happy.  I  think  that's  all  over." 

"  I  thought  so/'  said  Eben. 

Abigail  was  preparing  the  punch,  for  the  Squire 
expected  his  friends  that  evening.  Jennings  came 
first  •  some  time  after  Means  and  Lamson  arrived. 
They  had  a  strange  air  of  grave  excitement  and 
elation. 

When  the  game  of  cards  was  fairly  under  way,  the 
Colonel  played  in  a  manner  which  confused  them  all. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry,  Jack,  this  is  the  third  time 
you've  thrown  away  an  honor !"  the  Squire  roared  out, 
finally.  "  Is  it  the  punch  that's  gone  to  your  head  ?" 

"No,  Eben,"  replied  the  Colonel,  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
with  solemn  and  oratorical  cadences,  as  if  he  rose  to 
address  a  meeting.  "  It  is  not  the  punch.  I  am  used 
to  punch.  It  is  money.  I've  just  had  word  that — 
that  old  mining  stock  I  bought  when  I  was  in  the 
service,  and  haven't  thought  worth  more  than  a  New 
England  sheep  farm,  has  been  sold  for  sixty -five 
thousand  dollars." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  next  week  Colonel  Lamson  went  to  Boston, 
and  took  his  friend  John  Jennings  with  him.  Whether 
the  trip  was  purely  a  business  one,  or  was  to  be  re 
garded  in  the  light  of  a  celebration  of  the  Colonel's 
good  fortune,  never  transpired. 

Upham  people  exchanged  wishes  to  the  effect  that 
John  Jennings  and  Colonel  Lamson  might  not  take, 
in  their  old  age,  to  sowing  again  the  wild  oats  of  their 
youth.  "  John  Jennings  drank  himself  most  into 
his  grave  ;  an'  as  for  Colonel  Lamson,  it's  easy  enough 
to  see  that  he's  always  had  his  dram,  when  he  felt 
like  it.  If  they  get  home  sober  an'  alive  with  all  that 
money,  they're  lucky/'  people  said.  It  was  the  gen 
eral  impression  in  Upham  that  the  Colonel  had  gone 
to  Boston  with  his  sixty-five  thousand  dollars  in  his 
pocket.  Lawyer  Means's  ancient  relative,  who  served 
as  house-keeper,  was  reported  to  have  confessed  that 
she  was  on  tenter-hooks  about  it. 

However,  in  a  week  the  Colonel  and  his  friend  re 
turned,  and  the  most  anxious  could  find  nothing  in 
their  appearance  to  justify  their  gloomy  fears.  They 
had  never  looked  so  spick  and  span  and  prosperous 
within  the  memory  of  Upham,  for  both  of  them  were 
clad  in  glossiest  new  broadcloth,  of  city  cut,  and  both 
wore  silk  bell-hats,  which  gave  them  the  air  of  Lon 
don  dandies.  Jennings,  moreover,  displayed  in  his 
fine  shirt-front  a  new  diamond  pin,  and  the  Colonel 


424 


stepped  out  with  stately  flourishes  of  a  magnificent 
gold-headed  cane. 

Soon  it  was  told  on  good  authority  that  the  lawyer's 
house-keeper,  and  John  Jennings's  also,  had  a  present 
from  the  Colonel  of  a  rich  black  satin  gown,  that  the 
lawyer  had  a  gold-headed  cane — which  he  was,  indeed, 
seen  to  carry,  holding  it  stiff  and  straight,  like  a  roll 
of  parchment,  with  never  a  flourish — and  the  Squire 
a  gun  mounted  in  silver,  and  such  a  fishing-rod  as 
had  never  been  seen  in  the  village.  When  Lucina 
Merritt  came  to  meeting  the  Sunday  after  the  Colo 
nel's  return,  there  glistened  in  her  little  ears,  be 
tween  her  curls,  some  diamond  ear-drops,  and  Abi 
gail  wore  a  shawl  which  had  never  been  seen  in 

O 

Upham  before. 

Lawyer  Means's  female  relative,  and  Jennings's 
house-keeper,  said,  emphatically,  that  they  didn't  be 
lieve  that  either  of  them  drank  a  drop  of  anything 
stronger  than  water  all  the  time  they  were  gone. 

The  Colonel  was  radiant  with  satisfaction  ;  he 
went  about  with  his  face  beaming  as  unreservedly  as 
a  child's  who  has  gotten  a  treasure.  He  often  con 
fided  to  Means  his  perfect  delight  in  his  new  wealth. 
"Hang  it  all,  Means,"  he  would  say,  "I  wouldn't 
find  a  word  of  fault,  not  a  word,  I'd  strut  like  a  pea 
cock,  if  that  poor  little  girl  I  married  was  only  alive, 
and  I  could  buy  her  a  damned  thing  out  of  it ;  then 
there's  something  else,  Means — "  the  Colonel's  face 
would  take  on  an  expression  of  mingled  seriousness 
and  humor — "  Means,"  he  would  conclude,  in  a 
hoarse,  facetious  whisper,  "I  bought  those  stocks 
when  I  was  first  married ;  thought  I'd  got  to  pitch 
in  and  provide  for  my  family,  and  in  order  to  save 
enough  money  to  get  them  I  ran  in  debt  for  a  new 


425 


uniform  and  some  cavalry  boots   and  a  pony,  and 
damned  if  I  know  if  I  ever  paid  for  them." 

Jerome,,  going  to  the  mill  one  day  shortly  after 
wards,  reached  the  Means  house  as  the  Colonel  was 
coming  down  the  hill.  "  Stop  a  moment,"  the  Colo 
nel  called,  and  Jerome  waited  until  he  reached  him. 
"  Fine  day,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"Yes,  sir,  'tis,"  replied  Jerome;  then  he  added, 
"I  was  glad  to  hear  of  your  good  fortune,  sir." 

"Suppose,"  said  the  Colonel,  abruptly,  "that 
twenty-five  thousand  of  it  had  come  to  you,  what 
would  you  have  done  with  it  ?" 

Jerome  looked  at  him  in  a  bewildered  fashion. 
"  It  wasn't  mine,  and  there's  no  use  talking  about 
it,"  he  said. 

"  What  would  you  do  with  it  ?  Out  with  it !  Would 
you  stick  to  that  bargain  you  made  in  Robinson's  that 
evening  ?" 

Jerome  hesitated. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  to  speak,"  urged  the 
Colonel.  "If  you'd  stick  to  it,  say  so.  I  sha'n't 
call  it  any  reflection  upon  me;  I  haven't  the  slight 
est  intention  of  giving  twenty-five  thousand  dollars 
to  the  poor,  and  if  you've  changed  your  mind,  say 
so." 

"  I  haven't  changed  my  mind,  and  I  would  stick  to 
it,"  Jerome  replied  then. 

"  And,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  you  are  sticking  to  that 
other  resolution  of  yours,  to  work  until  you  win  a 
certain  fair  lady,  are  you  ?" 

Jerome  colored  high.     He  was  inclined  to  be  in-' 
dignant,  but  there  was  a  strange  earnestness  in  the 
Colonel's  manner. 

' '  I'm  not  the  sort  of  fellow  not  to  stick  to  a  resolu- 


426 


tion  of  that  kind  when  Fve  once  made  it,"  he  replied, 
shortly. 

The  Colonel  chuckled.  "  Well,  I  didn't  think  you 
were," he  returned — "didn't  think  you  were,  Jerome. 
That's  all.  Good-day."  With  that,  to  Jerome's  utter 
astonishment,  Colonel  Lamson  trudged  laboriously 
up  the  hill  to  the  Means  house  again. 

"He  must  have  come  down  just  to  ask  me  those 
questions,"  thought  Jerome,  and  thought  with  more 
bewilderment  still  that  the  Colonel  must  even  have 
been  watching  for  him.  He  had  no  conception  of  his 
meaning,  but  he  laughed  to  himself  at  the  bare  fancy 
of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  coming  to  him,  and 
also  at  the  suggestion  that  he  would  not  be  true  to 
his  resolution  to  win  Lucina.  Jerome  was  beginning 
to  feel  as  if  she  were  already  won.  The  next  spring, 
if  he  continued  to  prosper,  he  had  decided  to  speak 
to  her,  and,  as  the  months  went  on,  nothing  happened 
to  discourage  him. 

The  next  winter  the  snows  were  uncommonly  heavy. 
They  began  before  Thanksgiving  and  came  in  thick 
storms.  There  were  great  drifts  in  all  the  door-yards, 
the  stone  walls  and  fences  w.ere  hidden,  the  trees  stood 
in  deep,  swirling  hollows  of  snow.  Now  and  then  a 
shed-roof  broke  under  the  frozen  weight ;  one  walked 
through  the  village  street  as  through  clear-cut  furrows 
of  snow,  all  the  shadows  were  blue,  there  was  a  dazzle 
of  glacier  light  over  the  whole  village  when  the  sun 
arose.  However,  it  was  a  fine  winter  for  Jerome,  as 
far  as  his  work  was  concerned.  Wood  is  drawn  easily 
on  sleds,  and  the  snow  air  nerves  one  for  sharp  labors. 
Jerome  calculated  that  by  May  he  should  be  not  only 
doing  a  prosperous  business,  but  should  have  a  snug 
little  sum  clear.  Then  he  would  delay  no  longer. 


427 


On  the  nineteenth  day  of  March  came  the  last  snow 
storm,  and  the  worst  of  the  season.  Martin  Cheese- 
man  went  home  early.  Jerome  did  not  stay  in  the 
mill  long  after  he  left.  The  darkness  was  settling 
down  fast,  and  he  could  do  little  by  himself. 

Moreover,  an  intense  eagerness  to  be  at  home  seized 
him.  He  began  to  imagine  that  something  had  hap 
pened  to  his  mother  or  Elmira,  and  imagination  of 
evil  was  so  foreign  to  him  that  it  had  almost  the 
force  of  conviction. 

He  fell  also  to  thinking  of  his  father,  inconsequent- 
ly,  as  it  seemed,  yet  it  was  not  so,  for  imagined  dis 
asters  lead  back  by  retrograde  of  sequence  to  mem 
ories  of  real  ones. 

He  lived  over  again  his  frenzied  search  for  his  fa 
ther,  his  discovery  of  the  hat  on  the  shore  of  the  deep 
pond.  ' '  Poor  father !"  he  muttered. 

All  the  way  home  this  living  anxiety  for  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  this  dead  sorrow  haunted  him.  He 
thought  as  he  struggled  through  the  snow,  his  face 
bent  before  the  drive  of  the  sleet  as  before  a  flail  of 
ice,  how  often  in  all  weathers  his  father  had  traversed 
this  same  road,  how  his  own  feet  could  scarcely  step 
out  of  his  old  tracks.  He  thought  how  many  a  night, 
through  such  a  storm  as  this,  his  father  had  toiled 
wearily  home,  and  with  no  such  fire  of  youth  and 
hope  in  his  heart  to  cheer  him  on.  "  Father  must 
have  given  up  a  long  time  before  he  died/'  he  said  to 
himself. 

The  imagination  of  his  father  plodding  homeward 
in  his  old  harness  of  hopeless  toil  grew  so  strong  that 
his  own  identity  paled.  He  seemed  to  lose  all  am 
bition  and  zeal,  a  kind  of  heredity  of  discouragement 
overspread  him.  "  I  don't  know  but  I'll  have  to  give 


428 


up,  finally,  the  way  he  did,"  he  muttered,  panting 
under  the  buffeting  of  the  snow  wind. 

He  met  no  one  on  his  way  home.  Once  a  loaded 
wood-sled  came  up  behind  him  with  a  faint  creak 
and  jingle  of  harness,  then  the  straining  flanks  of  the 
horse,  the  cubic  pile  of  wood  shaded  out  of  shape  by 
the  snow,  the  humped  back  of  the  driver  on  the  top, 
passed  out  of  sight,  as  behind  a  slanting  white  cur 
tain.  The  village  houses  receded  through  shifting 
distances  of  pale  gloom;  one  could  scarcely  distinguish 
the  white  slants  of  their  roofs,  and  the  lamp-lights 
which  shone  out  newly  in  some  of  the  windows  made 
rosy  nimbuses. 

When  Jerome  drew  near  his  own  home  he  looked 
eagerly,  and  saw,  with  relief,  that  the  white  thickness 
of  the  storm  was  suffused  with  light  opposite  the 
kitchen  Avindows. 

"  Everything  all  right  ?"  he  asked,  when  he  en 
tered,  stamping  and  shaking  himself. 

Elmira  was  toasting  bread,  and  she  turned  her 
flushed  face  wonderingly.  "Yes;  why  shouldn't  it 
be  ?"  she  said. 

"No  reason  why.     It's  an  awful  storm." 

Ann  was  knitting  fast,  sitting  over  against  a  win 
dow  thick  with  clinging  shreds  of  snow.  Her  face 
was  in  the  shadow,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
crying.  She  did  not  speak  when  Jerome  entered. 

"What  ails  mother  ?"  he  whispered  to  Elmira,  fol 
lowing  her  into  the  pantry  when  he  had  a  chance. 

"She's  been  telling  a  dream  she  had  last  night 
about  father,  and  it  made  her  feel  bad.  Hush  !" 

When  they  were  all  seated  at  the  supper-table, 
Ann,  of  her  own  accord,  began  to  talk  again  of  her 
dream. 


429 


"  I've  been  tellin'  your  sister  about  a  dream  I  had 
last  night/'  said  she,  with  a  curious,  tearful  defiance,, 
( '  an'  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you.  It  won't  hurt  you  any  to 
have  your  poor  father  brought  to  mind  once  in  a 
while." 

"  Of  course  you  can  tell  it,  mother,  though  I  don't 
need  that  to  bring  father  to  mind.  I  was  thinking 
about  him  all  the  way  home,"  Jerome  answered. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  don't  often  think  about  him  all 
the  way  home.  I  guess  you  and  your  sister  both 
don't  think  about  your  poor  father,  that  worked  and 
slaved  for  you,  enough  to  hurt  you.  I  had  a  dream 
last  night  that  I  'ain't  been  able  to  get  out  of  my 
mind  all  day.  I  dreamt  that  I  was  in  this  room,  an' 
it  was  stormin',  jest  as  it  is  now.  I  could  hear  the 
wind  whistlin'  an'  howlin',  an'  the  windows  were  all 
thick  with  snow.  I  dreamt  I  had  a  little  baby  in  my 
arms  that  was  sick ;  it  was  cryin'  an'  moaning  an'  I 
was  walkin'  up  an'  clown,  up  an'  down,  tryin'  to  quiet 
it.  I  didn't  have  my  rheumatism,  could  walk  as  well 
as  anybody.  All  of  a  sudden,  as  I  was  walkin',  I 
smelt  flowers,  an'  there  on  the  hearth-stone  was  a 
rose-bush,  all  in  bloom.  I  went  up  an'  picked  a  rose, 
an'  shook  it  in  the  baby's  face  to  please  it,  an'  then  I 
heard  a  strange  noise,  that  drowned  out  the  wind  in 
the  chimney  an'  the  baby's  cryin'.  It  sounded  like 
cattle  bellowing,  dreadful  loud  and  mournful.  I  laid 
the  baby  down  in  the  rockin'-chair,  an'  first  thing  I 
knew  it  wasn't  there.  Instead  of  it  there  was  a  most 
beautiful  bird,  like  a  dove,  as  white  as  snow.  It 
flew  'round  my  head  once,  and  then  it  was  gone.  I 
thought  it  went  up  chimney. 

"  The  cattle  bellowing  sounded  nearer,  an'  I  could 
hear  them  trampin'.  I  run  to  the  front  door,  an' 


430 


there  they  were,  comin'  down  the  road,  hundreds  of 
'em,  horns  a-tossin'  an'  tails  a-lashin',  flingin'  up  the 
snow  like  water.  I  clapped  to  the  front  door,  an7 
bolted  it,  an'  run  into  the  parlor,  an'  looked  out  of 
the  window,  an'  there  on  the  other  side,  as  plain  as  I 
ever  see  it  in  my  life,  was  your  father's  face — there 
was  my  husband's  face. 

"He  didn't  look  a  day  older  than  when  he  left,  an' 
his  eyes  an'  his  mouth  were  smilin'  as  I  hadn't  seen 
'em  since  he  was  a  young  man. 

"  <  Oh,  Abel !'  says  I.  (  Oh,  Abel !'  An'  then  the 
face  wa'n't  there,  an'  I  heard  a  noise  behind  me,  an' 
looked  around. 

"I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw  that  par 
lor.  All  the  chairs  an'  the  sofa  were  covered  with 
my  weddin'-dress,  that  was  made  over  for  Elmira  ;  the 
window-curtains  were  made  of  it,  an'  the  table-spread. 
Thinks  I,  '  How  was  there  enough  of  that  silk,  when 
we  had  hard  work  to  get  Elmira's  dress  out  ?' 

"  Then  I  saw,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  great 
long  thing,  all  covered  over  with  silk,  an'  I  thought  it 
was  a  coffin.  I  went  up  to  it,  an'  there  was  Abel's 
hat  on  it,  the  one  he  wore  when  he  went  away.  I 
took  the  hat  off,  an'  the  wedding-silk,  an'  there  was  a 
coffin. 

"I  thought  it  was  Abel's.  I  raised  the  lid  and 
looked.  The  coffin  was  full  of  beautiful  clear  water, 
an'  I  could  see  through  it  the  bottom,  all  covered  with 
bright  gold  dollars.  I  leant  over  it,  and  there  was 
my  own  face  in  the  water,  jest  as  plain  as  in  a  lookin'- 
glass,  an'  there  was  Abel's  beside  it.  Then  I  turned 
around  quick,  an'  there  was  Abel — there  was  my  hus 
band,  standin'  there  alive  an'  well.  Then  I  woke 
up." 


431 


Ann  ended  with  a  hysterical  sob.  Jerome  and  El 
mira  exchanged  terrified  glances. 

"That  was  a  beautiful  dream,  mother/'  Jerome 
said,  soothingly.  "Now  try  to  eat  your  supper." 

"  It's  been  so  real  all  day.  I  feel  as  if — your  father 
had  come  an'  gone  again/'  Ann  sobbed. 

"  Try  and  eat  some  of  this  milk-toast,  mother  ;  it's 
real  nice/'  urged  Elmira. 

But  Ann  could  eat  no  supper.  She  seemed  com 
pletely  unstrung,  for  some  mysterious  reason.  They 
persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed  early  ;  but  she  was  not 
asleep  when  they  went  up-stairs,  about  ten  o'clock, 
for  she  called  out  sharply  to  know  if  it  was  still  snow 
ing. 

"No,  mother,"  Jerome  answered,  "I  have  just 
looked  out,  and  there  are  some  stars  overhead.  I 
guess  the  storm  is  over." 

"Oh,  Jerome,  you  don't  suppose  mother  is  going 
to  be  sick,  do  you  ?"  Elmira  whispered,  when  they 
were  on  the  stairs. 

•  "No,  I  guess  she's  only  nervous  about  her  dream. 
The  storm  may  have  something  to  do  with  it,  too." 

"  Oh,  Jerome,  I  feel  exactly  as  if  something  was 
going  to  happen  !" 

"Nonsense,"  said  Jerome,  laughing.  "You  are 
nervous  yourself.  "  I'll  give  you  and  mother  some 
valerian,  both  of  you." 

"Jerome,  I  am  sure  something  is  going  to  hap 
pen." 

"It  would  be  strange  if  something  didn't.  Some 
thing  is  happening  all  over  the  earth  with  every 
breath  we  draw." 

"  Jerome,  I  mean  to  us!" 

Jerome  gave  his  sister  a  little  push  into  her  room. 


432 


"Go  to  bed,  and  to  sleep/'  said  he,  "and  leave  your 
door  open  if  you're  scared,  and  I'll  leave  mine." 

Jerome  himself  could  not  get  to  sleep  soon ;  once 
or  twice  Elmira  spoke  to  him,  and  he  called  back  re 
assuringly,  but  his  own  nerves  were  at  a  severe  ten 
sion.  "What  has  got  into  us  all?"  he  thought,  im 
patiently.  It  was  midnight  before  he  lost  himself, 
and  he  had  slept  hardly  an  hour  when  he  wakened 
with  a  great  start. 

A  wild  clamor,  which  made  his  blood  run  cold, 
came  from  below.  He  leaped  out  of  bed  and  pulled 
on  his  trousers,  hearing  all  the  while,  as  in  a  dream, 
his  mother's  voice  shrilling  higher  and  higher.  "  Oh, 
Abel,  Abel,  Abel !  Oh,  Abel !" 

Elmira,  with  a  shawl  over  her  night-gown,  bear 
ing  a  flaring  candle,  rushed  across  the  landing  from 
her  room.  "Oh,"'  she  gasped,  "what  is  it  ?  what  is 
it?" 

"I  guess  mother  has  been  dreaming  again,"  Je 
rome  replied,  hoarsely,  but  the  thought  was  in  his 
mind  that  his  mother  had  gone  mad. 

"There's — cold  air — coming — in,"  Elmira  said,  in 
her  straining  voice.  "The  front  door  is  —  wide 
open." 

At  that  Jerome  pushed  her  aside  and  rushed  down 
the  stairs  and  into  the  kitchen. 

There  stood  his  mother  over  an  old  man,  seated  in 
her  rocking-chair.  There  she  stood,  pressing  his 
white  head  against  her  breast,  calling  over  and  over 
again  in  a  tone  through  whose  present  jubilation 
sounded  the  wail  of  past  woo,  "Oh,  Abel,  Abel, 
Abel !" 

Jerome  looked  at  them.  He  wondered,  dazedly,  if 
he  were  really  there  and  awake,  or  asleep  and  dream- 


THERE  STOOD  HIS  MOTHER  OVER  AN  OLD  MAN " 


•      • 
*«_• 


433 


ing  up-stairs  in  his  bed.  Elmira  came"  close  beside 
him  and  clutched  his  arm — even  that  did  not  clear 
his  bewildered  perceptions  into  certainty.  It  is  al 
ways  easier  for  the  normal  mind.,  when  confronted- 
by  astonishing  spectacles,  to  doubt  its  own  accuracy 
rather  than  believe  in  them.  "  Do  you  see  him  ?"  he 
whispered,  sharply,  to  Elmira. 

"  Yes ;  who  is  it  ?     Who  is  it  ?" 

Then  Jerome,  in  his  utter  bewilderment,  spoke 
out  the  secret  which  he  had  kept  since  childhood. 

"It  can't  be  father/' said  he— "it  can't  be.  I 
found  his  hat  on  the  shore  of  the  Dead  Hole.  Father 
drowned  himself  there." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Ann  turned  around. 
"It's  your  father  !"  she  cried  out,  sharply — "it's  your 
father  come  home.  Abel,  here's  the  children." 

Jerome  eyed  a  small  japanned  box,  or  trunk,  on  the 
floor,  a  stout  stick,  and  handkerchief  parcel.  He 
noted  then  clots  of  melting  snow  where  the  old  man 
had  trod.  Somehow  the  sight  of  the  snow  did  more 
to  restore  his  faculties  than  anything  else.  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  let  us  go  to  work!"  he  cried  to  Elmira, 
"  or  he'll  die.  He's  exhausted  with  tramping  through 
the  snow.  Get  some  of  that  brandy  in  the  cup 
board,  quick,  while  I  start  up  the  fire." 

"  Is  it  father  ?     Oh,  Jerome,  is  it  father  ?" 

"  Mother  says  so.     Get  the  brandy,  quick." 

Jerome  stirred  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  and  put  on  the 
kettle,  then  he  went  to  his  mother  and  laid  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  "Now,  mother,"  he  said,  "he 
must  be  put  into  a  warm  bed." 

"Yes,  put  him  into  his  own  bed — his  own  bed  !" 
shrieked  his  mother.  "  Oh,  Abel,  dear  soul,  come  and 
sleep  in  your  own  bed  again,  after  all  these  years ! 

23 


434 


Poor  man,  poor  man,  you've  got  home  to  your  own 
bed  I" 

Jerome  gave  his  mother's  thin,  vibrating  shoulder 
a  firm  shake.  "Mother/' he  said,  "tell  me — you 
must  tell  me — is  this  man  father  ?" 

"Don't  you  know  him?  Don't  you  know  your 
own  father  ?  Look  at  him."  Ann  threw  back  her 
head  and  pointed  at  the  old  worn  face  on  her  breast. 

Jerome  stared  at  it.  "  Where — did  he  come — 
from  ?"  he  panted. 

"  I  don't  know.  He's  come.  Oh,  Abel,  Abel,  you've 
come  home !" 

"  Give  me  some  of  that  brandy,  quick,"  Jerome 
called  to  Elmira,  who  stood  trembling,  holding  the 
bottle  and  glass.  He  poured  out  some  brandy,  and, 
with  a  teaspoon,  fed  the  old  man,  a  few  drops  at  a 
time.  Presently  he  raised  his  head  feebly,  but  it 
sank  back.  He  tried  to  speak.  "  Don't  try  to  talk," 
said  Jerome ;  "  wait  till  you're  rested.  Mother,  let 
him  alone  now ;  sit  down  there.  Elmira,  you  must 
try  and  help  me  a  little." 

"  If  you've  got  to  be  helped,  I'll  help,"  cried  Ann, 
fiercely. 

With  that  his  mother,  who  had  not  walked  since 
he  could  remember,  ran  into  the  bedroom,  and  be 
gan  spreading  the  sheets  smooth  and  shaking  the 
pillows. 

The  old  man  was  a  light-weight.  Jerome  almost 
carried  him  into  the  bedroom,  and  laid  him  on  the 
bed.  He  fed  him  with  more  brandy,  and  put  hot- 
water  bottles  around  him.  Presently  he  breathed 
evenly  in  a  sweet  sleep.  Ann  sat  by  his  side,  holding 
his  hand,  and  would  not  stir,  though  Jerome  besought 
her  to  go  up-stairs  to  Elmira's  room. 


435 


"I  guess  I  don't  leave  him  to  stray  away  again," 
said  she. 

Out  in  the  kitchen,  Elmira  pressed  close  to  Jerome. 
"Is  it,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear — "  is  it  father  ?" 

Jerome  nodded. 

"•How  do  you  know  ?" 

"I  remember.''' 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Yes,  he's  grown  old,  but  I  remember." 

"  Where — did  he — come  from  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    We  must  wait  till  he  wakes  up." 

The  brother  and  sister  huddled  close  together  over 
the  fire,  and  waited.  Elmira  held  Jerome's  hand  fast 
in  her  little  cold  one. 

"What's  in  that  little  tin  trunk  ?" 

"Hush;  I  don't  know." 

"Jerome,  mother  walked!" 

" Hush;  I  saw  her." 

It  was  an  hour  before  they  heard  a  sound  from  the 
bedroom.  Then  Ann's  voice  rang  out  clearly,  and 
another,  husky  and  feeble,  sounded  in  response.  Je 
rome  and  Elmira  went  into  the  room,  and  stood  be 
side  the  bed. 

"Here's  the  children,  Abel,"  said  Ann. 

The  face  on  the  pillow  looked  stranger  than  before 
to  Jerome.  When  half  unconscious  it  had  worn  a 
certain  stern  restraint,  which  coincided  with  his  old 
memories ;  now  it  was  full  of  an  innocent  pleasant 
ness,  like  a  child's,  which  puzzled  him.  The  old  man 
began  talking  eagerly  too,  and  Jerome  remembered 
his  father  as  very  slow-spoken,  though  it  might  have 
been  the  slowness  of  self-control,  not  temperament. 

£f  How  they've  grown  !"  he  said,  looking  at  his  chil 
dren  and  then  at  Ann.  "  That's  Jerome,  and  that's 


436 


Elmira.  How  I've  lotted  on  this  day."  He  held  out 
a  feeble  hand ;  Elmira  took  it,  timidly,  then  leaned 
over  and  kissed  him.  Jerome  took  it  then,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  like  a  hand  from  the  grave.  His  doubt 
passed ;  he  knew  that  this  man  was  his  father. 

"I  hadn't  got  asleep,"  Ann  said  ;  "I  was  thinkin' 
about  him.  I  heard  somebody  at  the  front  door ;  I 
got  up  and  went ;  I  knew  it  was  him." 

The  old  man  smiled  at  them  all.  "  I'll  tell  you 
where  I've  been,"  he  said.  "It  won't  take  long.  I  was 
behindhand  in  that  interest  money.  I  couldn't  earn 
enough  to  get  ahead  nohow.  I  was  nothin'  but  a  drag 
on  you  all,  nothin'  but  a  drag.  All  of  a  sudden,  that 
day  when  I  went  away,  I  reasoned  of  it  out.  Says  I, 
that  mortgage  will  be  foreclosed ;  my  stayin'  where  I 
be  won't  make  no  difference  about  that.  I  ain't  doin' 
any  thin'  for  my  family,  anyway.  I'm  wore  out  tryin', 
and  it's  no  use.  If  I  go  away,  I  can  do  more  for  'em 
than  if  I  stay.  I  can  save  every  cent  I  earn,  till  I  get 
enough  to  pay  that  mortgage  up.  I'll  get  a  chance 
that  way  to  do  somethin'  for  'em.  So  I  went." 

The  utter  inconsequence  of  his  father's  reasoning 
struck  Jerome  like  a  chill.  "  His  mind  isn't  just 
right,"  he  thought. 

"  Where  did  you  go,  Abel  ?"  asked  his  mother. 

"To  West  Linfield." 

"What!"  cried  Jerome.  "That's  only  twenty 
miles  away." 

Abel  Edwards  laughed  with  child -like  cunning. 
^1  know  it,"  he  said.  "I  went  to  work  on  Jabez 
Summers's  farm  there.  It's  way  up  the  hill-road; 
nobody  ever  came  there  that  knew  me.  I  took  an 
other  name,  too— called  myself  Ephraim  Green.  I've 
saved  up  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  It's  there  in  that 


437 


little  tin  chist.  I  bought  that  of  Summers  for  a  shil- 
lin',  to  keep  my  money  in.  There's  five  hundred  in 
gold,  an'  the  rest  in  bank-bills.  You  needn't  worry 
now,  mother.  We'll  pay  that  mortgage  up  to-mor- 


"  The  mortgage  is  all  paid.  We've  paid  it,  Abel," 
cried  Ann. 

"  Paid  !     The  mortgage  ain't  paid  !" 

"  Yes,  we've  paid  it.  We  all  earnt  money  an'  paid 
it." 

"Then  we  can  keep  the  money,"  said  the  old  man, 
happily.  "  We  can  keep  it,  mother  ;  I  thought  it 
would  go  kinder  hard  partin'  with  it.  I've  worked  so 
hard  to  save  it.  I  'ain't  had  many  clothes,  an'  I  'ain't 
even  been  to  meetin'  lately,  my  coat  got  so  ragged." 

Elmira  was  crying. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  to-night,  father  ?"  Jerome 
asked,  huskily. 

"I  walked  from  West  Linfield ;  started  yesterday 
afternoon.  I  come  as  far  as  Westbrook,  an'  it  began 
to  snow.  I  put  up  at  Hayes's  Tavern." 

"At  Hayes's  Tavern,  with  all  that  money!"  ex 
claimed  Elmira. 

"  Why,  ain't  they  honest  there  ?"  asked  the  old 
man,  quickly. 

"  Yes,  father,  they're  all  right,  I  guess.     Go  on." 

"They  seemed  real  honest,"  said  his  father.  "I 
told  'em  all  about  it,  and  they  acted  real  interested. 
Mis'  Hayes  she  fried  me  some  slapjacks  for  supper. 
I  had  a  good  room,  with  a  man  who  was  goin'  to  Bos 
ton  this  mornin'.  He  started  afore  light  ;  he  was 
gone  when  1  woke  up.  I  stayed  there  till  afternoon, 
then  I  started  out.  I  got  a  lift  as  far  as  the  Corners, 
then  I  walked  a  spell  and  went  into  a  house,  where 


438 


they  give  me  some  supper,  and  give  me  another  lift 
as  far  as  the  Stone  Hill  Meetinghouse.  Fve  been 
trampin'  since.  It  was  rather  hard,  on  account 
of  the  roads  bein'  some  drifted,  but  it's  stopped 
win'." 

Why  didn't  you  come  on  the  coach,  Abel,  when 
you  had  all  that  money  ?"  asked  Ann,  pitifully.  "  I 
wonder  it  hadn't  killed  you." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  was  goin'  to  spend  that  money 
for  coach  hire  ?  You  dun'no'  how  awful  hard  it 
come,  mother,"  replied  the  old  man.  He  closed  his 
eyes  as  he  spoke  ;  he  was  weary  almost  to  death. 

"He'll  go  to  sleep  again  if  you  don't  talk,  moth 
er,"  Jerome  whispered. 

"Well,  Fll  lay  down  side  of  him,  an7  mebbe  we'll 
both  go  to  sleep,"  his  mother  said,  with  a  strange  do 
cility.  Jerome  assisted  her  into  the  bed,  then  he  and 
Elmira  went  back  to  the  kitchen. 

Jerome  motioned  to  Elmira  to  be  quiet,  and  cautious 
ly  lifted  the  little  japanned  trunk  and  passed  it  from 
one  hand  to  the  other,  as  if  testing  its  weight.  Elmi 
ra  watched  him  with  her  bewildered,  tearful  eyes. 
Finally  he  tiptoed  softly  out  with  it,  motioning  her 
to  follow  with  the  candle.  They  went  into  the  icy 
parlor  and  closed  the  door. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Jerome  ?"  Elmira  whispered. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  may  be  something  wrong  with 
the  money.  I'm  going  to  find  it  out  before  he  does, 
if  there  is." 

There  was  a  little  padlock  on  the  trunk,  but  it  was 
tied  together  with  a  bit  of  leather  shoestring,  not 
locked.  Jerome  took  out  his  jack-knife,  cut  the 
string,  and  opened  the  trunk.  Elmira  held  the  can 
dle  while  he  examined  the  contents.  There  was  a 


439 


large  old  wallet  stuffed  with  bank-notes,  also  several 
parcels  of  them  tied  up  carefully. 

"It's  just  as  I  thought/'  Jerome  muttered. 

"  What  ?" 

"  Some  of  the  money  is  gone.  The  gold  isn't  here. 
It  might  have  been  the  man  who  roomed  with  him  at 
Hayes's  Tavern.  There  have  been  queer  things  done 
there  before  now.  All  I  wonder  is,  he  didn't  take  it 
all." 

"  Oh,  Jerome,  it  isn't  gone  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  gold  is  gone.  Here  is  the  bag  it  was  in. 
The  thief  left  that.  Suppose  he  thought  he  might 
be  traced  by  it." 

"Oh,  poor  father,  poor  father,  what  will  he  do  I" 
moaned  Elmira. 

"  He'll  do  nothing.  He'll  never  know  it,"  said  Je 
rome. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Wait  here  a  minute."  Jerome  went  noiselessly 
out  of  the  room  and  up-stairs.  He  returned  soon 
with  a  leathern  bag,  which  he  carried  with  great  cau 
tion.  "I'm  trying  to  keep  this  from  jingling,"  he 
whispered. 

"  Oh,  Jerome,  what  is  it  ?" 

Jerome  laughed  and  untied  the  mouth  of  the  bag. 
"  You  must  help  me  put  it  into  the  other  bag ;  ev 
ery  dollar  will  have  to  be  counted  out  separately." 

"  Oh,  Jerome,  is  it  money  you've  saved  ?" 

"Yes;  and  don't  you  ever  tell  of  it  to  either  of 
them,  or  anybody  else,  as  long  as  you  live.  I  guess* 
poor  father  sha'n't  know  he's  lost  any  of  his  money 
he's  worked  so  hard  to  get,  if  I  can  help  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A  STKA^GEK  passing  Abel  Edwards's  house  the  day 
after  his  return  might  have  gotten  the  impression 
that  one  of  the  functions  of  village  life — a  wedding 
or  a  funeral — was  going  on  there.  From  morning 
until  late  at  night  the  people  came  down  the  road,  wad 
ing  through  the  snow,  the  men  with  trousers  tucked 
into  boots,  the  women  with  yarn-stockings  over  their 
shoes,  their  arms  akimbo,  pinning  their  kilted  petti 
coats  to  their  hips.  Many  drove  there  in  sleighs, 
tilting  to  the  drifts.  The  Edwards's  door-yard  was 
crowded  with  teams. 

All  the  relatives  who  had  come  fourteen  years  be 
fore  to  Abel  Edwards's  funeral  came  now  to  his  res 
urrection.  They  had  gotten  the  news  of  it  in  such 
strange,  untraceable  ways,  that  it  seemed  almost  like 
mental  telegraphy.  The  Greens  of  Westbrook  were 
there  —  the  three  little  girls  in  blue,  now  women 
grown.  One  of  them  came  with  her  husband  and 
baby ;  another  with  a  blushing  lout  of  a  lad,  to  whom 
she  was  betrothed ;  and  the  third,  with  a  meek  blue 
eye,  on  the  watch  for  a  possible  lover  in  the  com 
pany.  The  Lawson  sisters,  from  Granby,  arrived 
early  in  the  day,  being  conveyed  thither  by  an  oblig 
ing  neighbor.  Amelia  Stokes  rode  to  Upham  on  the 
butcher's  wagon,  in  lieu  of  another  conveyance,  and 
her  journey  was  a  long  one,  necessitating  hot  ginger- 
tea  and  the  toasting  of  her  slim  feet  at  the  fire  upon 


441 


her  arrival.  Amelia  was  clad  in  mourning  for  her 
old  mother,  who  had  died  the  year  before.  At  in 
tervals  she  wept  furtively,  incited  to  grief  by  recol 
lections  of  her  mother,  which  the  place  and  occasion 
awakened. 

' '  Every  once  in  a  while  it  comes  over  me  how  poor 
mother  relished  them  hot  biscuits  and  that  tea  at 
your  funeral,"  she  whispered  softly  to  Abel,  who 
smiled  with  child-like  serenity  in  response. 

All  day  Abel  sat  in  state,  which  was,  however,  in 
tensified  in  the  afternoon  by  a  new  suit  of  clothes, 
which  Jerome  had  purchased  in  Dale.  As  soon  as 
Jerome  returned  with  it,  he  was  hustled  into  the 
bedroom  with  his  father. 

"  Get  your  father  into  'em  quick,  before  anybody 
else  comes,"  said  Ann  Edwards.  She  was  dressed  in 
her  best,  and  Elmira  had  further  adorned  her  with  a 
little  worked  lace  kerchief  of  her  own,  fastened  at 
the  bosom  with  a  sprig  of  rose-geranium  leaves  and 
blossoms.  Ann  had  confined  herself  to  her  chair 
since  arising  that  morning.  She  made  no  allusion 
to  her  walking  the  night  before,  and  seemed  to  ex 
pect  assistance  as  usual. 

"  Do  you  suppose  mother  can't  walk  this  morn 
ing  ?"  Elmira  whispered  to  Jerome. 

"Hush,"  he  replied,  "don't  bother  her  with  it  un 
less  she  speaks  of  it  herself.  I  have  a  book  which 
gives  instances  of  people  recovering  under  strong 
excitement,  and  then  going  back  to  where  they  were 
before.  I  don't  believe  mother  can  walk,  or  she 
would." 

Ann  Edwards  and  Abel  sat  side  by  side  on  the  sofa 
in  the  parlor,  and  the  visitors  came  and  greeted  them, 
with  a  curious  manner,  which  had  in  it  not  so  much 


442 


of  the  joy  of  greeting,  as  awe  and  a  solemn  perplex 
ity.  Always,  after  shaking  hands  with  the  united 
couple,  they  whispered  furtively  to  one  another  that 
Abel  Edwards  was  much  changed,  they  should  scarce 
ly  have  known  him.  Yet,  with  their  simple  under 
standings,  they  could  not  have  defined  the  change, 
which  they  recognized  plainly  enough,  for  it  lay  not 
so  much  in  form  and  feature  as  in  character.  Abel 
Edwards's  hair  was  white,  he  was  somewhat  fuller  in 
his  face,  but  otherwise  he  was  little  altered,  so  far 
as  mere  physical  characteristics  went.  The  change 
in  him  was  subtler.  Jerome  had  noticed  it  the  night 
before,  and  it  was  evidently  a  permanent  condition. 
Abel  Edwards,  from  being  a  reserved  man,  with  the 
self-containment  of  one  who  is  buffeted  by  unfair 
odds  of  fate,  yet  will  not  stoop  to  vain  appeals,  but 
holds  always  to  the  front  his  face  of  dumb  dissent 
and  purpose,  was  become  a  garrulous  and  happy 
child.  People  hinted  that  Abel  Edwards's  mind  was 
affected,  but  it  was  a  question  whether  that  was  the 
case,  or  whether  it  was  the  simple  result  of  his 
abandonment,  fourteen  years  before,  of  the  reins 
which  had  held  an  original  nature  in  check.  He 
might  possibly  have  merely,  when  renouncing  his 
toil  over  the  up-grade  of  life,  slipped  back  to  his  first 
estate,  and  thus  have  experienced  in  one  sense  no 
change  at  all. 

Many  of  Abel's  old  friends  and  neighbors  were  not 
fully  convinced  of  the  desirability  of  his  reappearance. 
When  a  man  has  been  out  of  his  foothold  in  the  crowd 
for  fourteen  years,  he  cannot  regain  it  without  un 
due  jostling  of  people's  shoulders,  and  prejudices 
even.  The  resurrection  of  the  dead  might  have,  if 
the  truth  were  told,  uncomfortable  and  perplexing 


ALL   DAY  ABEL   SAT   IN   STATE" 


443 


features  for  their  nearest  and  dearest,  and  Abel  Ed 
wards  had  heen  practically  dead  and  buried. 

"  They  were  gettin/  along  real  well  before  he  come  ; 
of  course,  they're  glad  to  see  him,  but  I  dun'no'  whether 
they'll  get  along  as  well  with  him  or  not,"  proclaimed 
Mrs.  Green  of  Westbrook,  with  the  very  aggressive 
ness  of  frankness,  and  many  looked  assent. 

Abel's  wife  had  no  question  in  her  inmost  heart  of 
its  utter  blessedness  at  his  return,  but  her  grief  at 
his  loss  had  never  healed.  For  that  resolute  fem 
inine  soul,  which  had  fought  on  in  spite  of  it,  her 
husband  had  died  anew  every  morning  of  those  four 
teen  years  when  she  awoke  to  consciousness  of  life ; 
but  it  was  different  with  his  children.  For  both  of 
them  the  old  wounds  had  closed  ;  it  was  now  like 
tearing  them  asunder,  for  it  is  often  necessary  to  re 
vive  an  old  pain  to  fully  appreciate  a  present  joy. 
Had  Jerome  and  Elmira  been  older  at  the  time  of 
their  father's  disappearance,  it  would  have  been  oth 
erwise,  but  as  it  was,  their  old  love  for  him  had  been 
obliterated,  not  merely  by  time  and  absence,  but 
growth.  It  was  practically  impossible,  though  they 
would  not  have  owned  it  to  themselves,  for  them  to 
love  their  father,  when  he  first  returned,  as  they  had 
used.  They  were  painfully  anxious  to  be  utterly 
faithful,  and  had  an  odd  sort  of  tender  but  imagina 
tive  pity  towards  him,  but  they  could  grasp  no  more. 
Both  of  them  hesitated  when  they  said  father  ;  every 
time  they  returned  home  and  found  him  there  it  was 
with  a  sensation  of  surprise. 

Three  days  after  Abel  Edwards's  return  came  one 
of  the  severest  rain-storms  ever  known  in  Upham. 
The  storm  began  before  light;  when  people  first 
looked  out  in  the  morning  their  windows  were  glazed 


444 


with  streaming  wet,  but  it  did  not  reach  its  full  fury 
until  eleven  o'clock.  Then  the  rain  fell  in  green  and. 
hissing  sheets. 

"  Gorry,"  Martin  Cheeseman  said,  looking  out  of 
the  mill  door,  which  seemed  to  open  into  a  solid  wall 
of  water,  "  looks  as  if  the  great  deep  was  turned  up- 
sidedown  overhead.  If  it  keeps  on  this  way  long 
there'll  be  mischief/' 

"  Think  there'll  be  danger  to  the  mill  ?"  Jerome 
asked,  quickly. 

"No,  I  guess  not,  it's  built  strong;  but  I  wouldn't 
resk  the  solid  airth  long  under  Niagry.  Where  you 
goin'  ?" 

"Down  to  Eobinson's  store.  I  want  to  get  some 
thing." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  were  half-witted  to  go 
out  in  this  soak  if  you  could  keep  a  roof  over  your 
head,"  cried  Cheeseman,  but  Jerome  was  gone. 

He  bought  strong  rope  at  Eobinson's  store,  and  be 
fore  night  the  mill  was  anchored  to  some  stout  trees 
and  one  great  granite  bowlder.  Cheeseman  helped, 
grumblingly.  "I  shall  get  laid  up  with  rheumatiz 
out  of  it,"  he  said;  "an'  this  rain  can't  keep  on,  it 
ain't  in  natur',  out  of  the  Old  Testament." 

But  the  rain  continued  all  that  day  and  night,  and 
the  next  day,  with  almost  unremitting  fury.  At 
times  it  seemed  more  than  rain — there  were  liquid 
shafts  reaching  from  earth  to  sky.  By  noon  of  the 
second  day,  half  the  cellars  in  the  village  were  flood 
ed  ;  coops  floated  in  slatted  wrecks  over  fields  ;  the 
roads  were  knee-deep  in  certain  places  ;  the  horses 
drew  back — it  was  like  fording  a  stream.  People  be 
gan  to  be  alarmed. 

"If  this  keeps  on  an  hour  longer,  there'll  be  the 


445 


devil  to  pay,"  Squire  Eben  Merritt  said,  when  he  came 
home  to  dinner.  He  had  been  down  to  Lawyer 
Means's  and  crossed  the  Graystone  brook,  which  was 
now  a  swollen  river. 

"  What  will  happen  ?"  asked  Abigail. 

"Happen  ?  The  Main  Street  bridge  will  go,  and 
the  saw-mill,  and  the  Lord  knows  what  else." 

Lucina  turned  pale. 

'•'It  will  be  hard  on  Jerome  if  he  loses  his  mill," 
said  her  mother. 

"  Well,  the  boy  will  lose  it  if  it  keeps  on,"  returned 
the  Squire.  "He's  working  hard,  with  four  men  to 
help  him  ;  they're  loading  it  with  stones  and  anchor 
ing  it  with  ropes,  but  it  can't  stand  much  more.  I 
miss  my  guess,  if  the  foundations  are  not  undermined 
now." 

Lucina  said  not  a  word,  but  as  soon  as  she  could 
she  slipped  up-stairs  to  her  chaonber  and  prayed  that 
her  Heavenly  Father  would  save  poor  Jerome's  mill, 
and  stop  the  rain ;  but  it  kept  on  raining.  When 
Lucina  heard  the  fierce  dash  of  it  on  her  window- 
pane,  like  an  angry  dissent  to  her  petition,  she  prayed 
more  fervently,  sobbing  softly  in  the  whiteness  of  her 
maiden  bed  ;  still  it  rained. 

The  mighty  body  of  snow,  pierced  in  a  thousand 
places  by  the  rain  as  by  liquid  fingers,  settled  with 
inconceivable  rapidity.  Great  drifts  which  had  slant 
ed  to  the  tops  of  north  windows  twelve  hours  be 
fore  were  almost  gone.  The  wide  snow-levels  of  the 
fields  were  all  honey-combed  and  glistening  here  and 
there  with  pools.  The  trees  dripped  with  clots  of 
melting  snow,  there  were  avalanches  from  the  village 
roofs,  and  even  in  the  houses  was  heard  the  roar  of  the 
brook.  It  was,  however,  no  longer  a  brook,  not  even 


446 


a  river,  but  a  torrent.  It  overspread  its  banks  on 
either  side.  Forest  trees  stood  knee-deep  in  it,  their 
branches  swept  it.  At  three  o'clock  Jerome's  mill 
was  surrounded,  though  on  one  side  by  only  a  rip 
pling  shallow  of  water.  He  had  plenty  of  helpers 
all  day ;  for  if  his  dam  and  mill  went,  there  was  dan 
ger  to  the  Main  Street  bridge.  Now  they  had  all 
taken  advantage  of  the  last  firm  footing,  and  left  the 
mill.  They  had  joined  a  watching  group  on  a  rise  of 
ground  beyond  the  flood.  The  rain  was  slacking 
somewhat,  and  half  the  male  portion  of  the  village 
seemed  assembled,  watching  for  the  possible  destruc 
tion  of  the  mill.  Now  and  then  came  a  hoarse  shout 
across  the  swelling  water  to  Jerome.  He  alone  re 
mained  in  his  mill,  standing  by  the  great  door  that 
overlooked  the  dam  and  the  falls.  He  was  high 
above  it,  but  the  spray  wet  his  face. 

The  great  yellow  flood  came  leaping  tumultuously 
over  the  dam,  and  rebounding  in  wild  fountains  of 
spray.  Trees  came  with  it,  and  joists  —  a  bridge 
somewhere  above  had  gone.  Strange,  uncanny  wreck 
age,  which  could  not  be  defined,  bobbed  on  the  tor 
rent,  and  took  the  plunge  of  annihilation  over  the 
dam.  Every  now  and  then  came  a  cry  and  a  groan 
of  doubt  from  the  watchers,  who  thought  this  or  that 
might  be  a  drowned  man. 

Besides  the  thundering  rush  of  the  water  there  were 
other  sounds,  which  Jerome  seemed  to  hear  with  all 
his  nervous  system.  The  mill  hummed  with  awful 
musical  vibrations,  it  strained  and  creaked  like  a  ship 
at  sea. 

The  hoarse  shouts  from  the  shore  for  him  to  leave 
the  mill  were  redoubled,  but  he  paid  no  heed.  He 
was  on  the  other  side,  and  knew  nothing  of  a  sudden 


447 


commotion  among  the  people  when  Jake  Noyes 
came  dashing  through  the  trees  and  calling  for 
Doctor  Prescott,  who  had  joined  them  some  half 
hour  before. 

"  Come  quick,  for  God's  sake!"  he  shouted  ;  "you're 
wanted  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook,  and  the  bridge 
will  be  gone,  and  you'll  have  to  go  ten  miles  round. 
Colonel  Lamson  is  down  with  apoplexy!" 

Jerome  did  not  know  when  the  doctor  followed 
Noyes  hurriedly  out  to  the  road  where  his  team  was 
waiting,  and  Squire  Eben  Merritt  went  at  a  run  after 
them,  shouting  back,  "  Don't  let  that  boy  stay  in 
that  mill  too  long ;  see  to  it,  some  of  you." 

There  came  a  great  barn-roof  down-stream,  followed 
by  a  tossing  wake  of  hay  and  straw.  The  crowd  on 
shore  groaned.  It  broke  when  it  passed  the  falls, 
and  so  the  danger  to  the  bridge  below  was  averted, 
but  a  heavy  beam  slewed  sidewise  as  it  passed  the 
mill,  and  struck  it.  The  mill  quivered  in  every  beam, 
and  the  floor  canted  like  the  deck  of  a  vessel.  Mar 
tin  Cheeseman  rushed  in  and  caught  Jerome  roughly 
by  the  arm,  "  For  God's  sake,  what  ye  up  to  ?"  he 
snouted  above  the  roar  of  the  water.  "  Corne  along 
with  ye.  She's  goin"  !" 

The  old  man  had  a  rope  tied  to  his  middle ;  Je 
rome  followed  him,  unresistingly,  and  they  crossed, 
almost  waist-deep  and  in  danger  of  being  swept  from 
their  foothold  by  the  current.  Cheeseman  kept  tight 
hold  of  Jerome's  arm.  "Bear  up,"  he  said,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  as  they  struggled  out  of  the  water; 
"  life's  more'n  a  mill." 

"It's  more  than  a  mill  that's  going  down,"  replied 
Jerome,  in  a  dull  monotone  which  Cheeseman  did  not 
hear.  There  were  plenty  of  out-stretched  hands  to 


448 


help  them  to  the  shore ;  the  men  pressed  around  with 
rude  sympathy. 

"It's  darned  hard  luck,"  one  and  another  said, 
with  the  defiant  emphasis  of  an  oath. 

Then  they  turned  from  Jerome  and  riveted  their 
attention  upon  the  mill,  which  swayed  visibly.  Je 
rome  stood  apart,  his  back  turned,  looking  away  into 
the  depths  of  the  dripping  woods.  Cheeseman  came 
up  and  clapped  his  shoulder  hard.  "  Don't  ye  want 
to  see  it  go  ?"  he  cried.  "  It's  a  sight.  Might  as 
well  get  all  ye  can  out  of  it." 

Jerome  shook  his  head. 

"  Ye'd  better.  I  tell  ye,  it's  a  sight.  I've  seen 
three  go  in  my  lifetime,  an'  one  of  'em  was  my  own. 
Lord,  I  looked  on  with  the  rest !  Might  as  well  get 
all  the  fun  you  can  out  of  your  own  funeral.  Hullo  ! 
There — there  goes  the  dam,  an' — there  goes  the  mill !" 

There  was  a  wild  chorus  of  shouts  and0 groans. 
Jerome's  mill  went  reeling  down-stream,  but  he  did 
not  see  it.  He  had  heard  the  new  spouting  roar  of 
water  and  the  crash,  and  knew  what  it  meant,  but 
look  he  would  not. 

"  Ye  missed  it,"  said  Cheeseman. 

Some  of  the  men  came  up  and  wrung  his  hand  hur 
riedly,  then  were  off  with  the  crowd  to  see  the  Main 
Street  bridge  go.  Jerome  sat  down  weakly  on  a  pile 
of  sodden  logs,  which  the  flood  had  not  reached. 

Cheeseman  stared  at  him.  "  What  on  airth  are  you 
settin'  down  there  for  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Fm  going,  pretty  soon,"  Jerome  replied. 

"  You'll  catch  your  death,  settin'  there  in  those 
wet  clothes.  Come,  git  up  and  go  home." 

Jerome  did  not  stir  ;  his  white  face  was  set  straight 
ahead;  he  muttered  something  which  the  other  could 


449 


not  hear.  Cheeseman  looked  at  him  perplexedly.  He 
laid  hold  of  his  shoulder  and  shook  him  again,  and 
ordered  him  angrily,  with  no  avail;  then  set  off  him 
self.  He  was  old,  and  the  chill  of  his  wet  clothes 
was  stealing  through  him. 

Not  long  afterwards  Jerome  went  down  the  road 
towards  home.  Half  way  there  he  met  a  hurrying 
man,  belated  for  the  tragic  drama  on  the  village 
stage. 

"  Hullo  !"  he  called,  excitedly.    ' <  Your  mill  gone  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Dam  gone  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Gosh  !     Bridge  gone?" 

"Don't  know." 

"  Gosh  !  if  I  ain't  quick,  I'll  miss  the  whole  show," 
cried  the  man,  with  a  spurt  ahead ;  but,  after  all,  he 
stopped  a  moment  and  looked  back  curiously  at  Je 
rome  plodding  down  the  flooded  road,  his  weary  fig 
ure  bent  stiffly,  with  the  slant  of  his  own  dejected- 
ness,  athwart  the  pelting  slant  of  the  storm. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

JEROME,  when  his  mill  went  down,  felt  that  his 
dearest  hope  in  life  went  with  it.  His  fighting  spirit 
did  not  fail  him ;  he  had  not  the  least  inclination  to 
settle  back  for  the  buffets  of  fate  ;  but  the  combat 
henceforth  would  be  for  honor  only,  not  victory.  He 
felt  that  his  defeats  had  established  themselves  in  an 
endless  ratio  to  his  efforts. 

"I  shall  go  to  work  again,  and  save  up  money  for 
a  new  mill.  I  shall  build  it  after  a  long  while  ;  but 
something  will  always  happen  to  put  me  back,  and  I 
shall  never  marry  her/'  he  told  himself. 

Had  he  the  money  with  which  he  had  made  good 
his  father's  loss,  he  could  have  rebuilt  in  a  short 
time,  but  he  did  not  consider  the  possibility  of  taking 
that  and,  perhaps,  supplementing  it  by  a  loan  from 
his  father.  "  It  would  break  the  old  man's  heart  to 
touch  his  money,"  he  said,  "and  the  mill  might  go 
again,  and  it  would  all  be  lost." 

On  the  morning  after  the  destruction  of  his  mill, 
Squire  Eben  Merritt  came  to  Jerome's  door,  and  gave 
him  a  daintily  folded  little  note.  "Lucina  sent  this 
to  you,"  he  said,  and  eyed  him  with  a  sort  of  sad 
keenness  as  he  took  it  and  thanked  him  in  a  bewil 
dered  fashion,  his  haggard  face  reddening. 

The  Squire  himself  looked  as  if  he  had  passed  a 
sleepless  night,  his  fresh  color  had  faded,  his  face  was 
elongated.  "I'm  sorry  enough  about  your  loss,  my 


451 


boy/'  he  said,  "but  I  can't  say  as  much  as  I  might, 
or  feel  as  much  as  I  might,  if  my  old  friend  hadn't 
gone  down  in — a  deeper  flood."  The  Squire's  voice 
broke.  Jerome  looked  away  from  his  working  face. 
He  had  scarcely,  in  his  own  selfishness  of  loss,  grasped 
the  news  of  Colonel  Lamson's  death,  which  had  taken 
place  before  the  bridge  went  down  and  before  the 
doctor  arrived.  He  muttered  something  vaguely  sym 
pathetic  in  response.  Lucina's  little  letter  seemed 
to  burn  his  fingers. 

The  Squire  dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes, 
coughed  hard,  then  glanced  at  the  letter.  "  Lucina 
has  been  talking  to  her  mother,"  he  said,  abruptly. 
"  It  seems  the — Colonel  Lamson  had  told  her  some 
thing  that  you  said  to  him.  We  didn't  know  how 
matters  stood.  By-and-by  you  and  I  will  have  a  talk. 
Don't  be  too  down-hearted  over  the  mill — there's 
more  than  one  way  out  of  that  difficulty.  In  the 
meantime,  there's  her  letter— I've  read  it.  She's  cried 
all  night  because  your  damned  mill  has  gone,  and 
looks  sick  enough  to  call  the  doctor  this  morning, 
and,  by  the  Lord  Harry  !  sir,  you  can  think  yourself 
a  lucky  fellow  !"  With  that  the  Squire  shook  his 
head  fiercely  and  strode  down  the  path  with  bowed 
shoulders.  Jerome  went  up-stairs  with  his  letter. 

"  What  did  the  Squire  want  ?"  his  mother  called, 
but  he  did  not  heed  her. 

It  was  his  first  letter  from  Lucina.  He  opened  it 
and  read ;  there  were  only  a  few  delicately  formed 
lines,  but  for  him  they  were  as  finely  cut,  with  all 
possible  lights  of  meaning,  as  a  diamond : 

"DEAR  FRIEND"  [wrote  Lucina], — "I  beg  you  to  accept 
my  sympathy  in  the  disaster  which  has  befallen  your  property, 


452 


and  I  implore  you  not  to  be  disheartened,  and  not  to  consider 
me  unmaidenly  for  signing  myself  your  ever  faithful  and  con 
stant  friend,  through  all  the  joys  or  vicissitudes  of  life. 

"  LUCINA  MERRITT." 

This  letter,  modelled  after  the  fashion  which  Lu- 
cina  had  learned  at  school,  whereby  she  bound  and 
laced  over  with  set  words  and  phrases,  as  with  a  spe 
cies  of  emotional  stays,  her  love  and  pity,  not  consid 
ering  it  decorous  to  give  them  full  breath,  filled  Je 
rome  with  happiness  and  despair.  He  understood 
that  Colonel  Lamson  had  betrayed  him,  that  Lucina, 
all  unasked,  had  bound  herself  in  love  and  faithful 
ness  to  him  through  all  his  failing  efforts. 

"  I  won't  have  it— I  won't  have  it !"  he  muttered, 
fiercely,  but  he  kissed  the  little  letter  with  exulting 
rapture.  "I've'got  this  much,  anyhow,"  he  thought. 

He  wondered  if  he  should  answer  it.  How  could 
he  refuse  her  dear  constancy  and  affection,  yet  how 
could  he  accept  it  ?  He  had  no  hope  of  marrying  her, 
he  reasoned  that  it  would  be  better  for  her  should  he 
even  repulse  her  rudely.  It  would  be  like  screwing 
the  rack  for  his  own  body  to  do  that,  but  he  declared 
to  himself  that  he  ought.  "  She'll  never  marry  at  all, 
if  she  waits  for  you ;  it'll  hinder  her  looking  at  some 
body  else;  she'll  be  an  old  maid,  she'll  be  all  alone 
in  the  world,  with  no  husband  or  children,  and  you 
know  it/'  he  told  himself,  with  a  kind  of  mental  squar 
ing  of  his  own  fists  in  his  face.  All  the  time,  with 
that  curious,  dogmatic  selfishness  which  has  some 
times  its  roots  in  unselfishness  itself,  he  never  con 
sidered  the  effect  upon  poor  Lucina  of  the  repulse  of 
her  love  and  constancy.  Such  was  his  ardor  for  un 
selfishness  that,  in  its  pursuit,  he  would  have  made  all 
others  selfish  nor  cared. 


453 


That  day  the  sun  shone  in  a  bright,  windy  sky. 
The  snow  was  nearly  gone,  the  brook  still  leaped  in  a 
furious  torrent,  but  there  was  no  more  danger  from 
it.  The  waters  were,  in  fact,  receding  slowly.  Jerome 
worked  all  day  near  the  ruinous  site  of  his  mill,  and 
Martin  Oheeseman  with  him.  He  had  a  quantity  of 
logs  and  lumber,  which  had  escaped  the  flood,  to  care 
for.  Cheeseman  inquired  if  he  was  going  to  rebuild 
the  mill. 

"  When  I  get  money  enough, "  Jerome  replied,  with 
a  sturdy  fling  of  a  log. 

"' Ain't  ye  got  most  enough  ?" 

"No." 

"Ye  ought  to  have.     What  ye  done  with  it  ?" 

"Put  it  to  a  good  use,"  Jerome  said,  with  no  re 
sentment  of  the  other's  curiosity. 

"  Why  don't  ye  hire  money,  if  ye  'ain't  got  enough?" 

"I  don't  hire  money,"  answered  Jerome,  and 
heaved  another  log  with  a  splendid  swing  from  his 
shoulders. 

Cheeseman  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  ' '  Well,"  he 
said,  "I  'ain't  got  none  to  hire.  I've  got  my  money 
out  of  mills  on  the  banks  of  roarin'  streams,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  keep  it  out.  I  believe  in  Providence,  but  I 
don't  believe  in  temptin'  of  it.  I  'ain't  got  no  money 
to  hire." 

"And  I  don't  want  to  hire,  so  we  sha'n't  quarrel 
about  that,"  Jerome  replied,  shortly. 

"  I  don't  say  that  I  wouldn't  let  ye  have  a  little 
money,  if  you  needed  it,  an'  it  was  for  somethin'  safe 
for  both  of  us,"  said  Cheeseman,  uneasily,  "but,  as  I 
said  before,  I  don't  believe  in  temptin'  of  Providence, 
especially  when  it  seems  set  agin  you." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  shirk  any  blame  off  on  to 


454 


Providence,"  Jerome  responded,  scornfully.  "  It  was 
Stimson's  weak  dam  up  above." 

"Mebbe  the  dam  was  weak,  but  Providence  took 
advantage  of  it,"  insisted  Cheeseman,  who,  in  spite  of 
his  cheerful  temperament,  had  a  gloomy  theology. 
"  Fd  like  to  know  why  ye  think  your  mill  went  down; 
do  ye  think  ye  done  anything  to  deserve  it  ?"  he 
said,  further,  in  an  argumentative  tone. 

"If  I  thought  I  had,  I'd  do  it  again,"  Jerome  re 
turned,  and  went  off  to  a  distant  pile  of  lumber  out 
of  sound  of  Cheeseman's  voice. 

He  felt  a  proud  sensitiveness,  almost  a  shame,  over 
his  calamity,  which  he  would  have  been  at  a  loss  to 
explain.  All  day  long,  when  men  came  to  view  the 
scene  of  disaster,  he  tried  to  avoid  them.  He  shrank 
in  spirit  even  from  their  sympathy. 

"No  worse  for  me  than  for  anybody  else,"  he 
would  reply,  when  told  repeatedly,  with  gruff  condo 
lence,  that  it  was  hard  luck.  His  sensitiveness  might 
have  arisen  from  some  hereditary  taint  from  his  or 
thodox  ancestors  of  their  belief  that  misfortune  is 
the  whip-lash  for  sin,  or  from  his  native  resentment 
of  pity.  At  home  he  could  not  talk  of  it  either  with 
his  mother  or  Elmira  ;  as  for  his  father,  he  sat  in  the 
sun  and  dozed.  It  was  doubtful  if  he  fully  realized 
what  had  happened. 

Jerome  worked  in  the  woods  that  day  until  after 
dark  ;  when  he  went  home  he  found  that  the  Squire 
had  been  there  with  a  request  for  him  to  be  one  of 
the  bearers  at  the  Colonel's  funeral.  That  was  con 
sidered  a  post  of  melancholy  honor,  and  his  mother 
looked  sadly  important  over  it. 

"  I  s'pose  as  long  as  the  poor  Colonel  is  gone  him 
self,  an'  there's  only  three  left  that  he  used  to  be  so 


455 


intimate  with,  that  they  thought  you  would  be  a  good 
one/7  said  she. 

"It  is  strange  they  did  not  ask  some  one  nearer 
his  age,"  Jerome  said,  wonderingly. 

The  funeral  was  appointed  for  the  next  afternoon. 
Jerome  sat  in  the  parlor  of  the  Means  house  with  the 
mourners,  who  were  few,  as  the  dead  man  had  no 
kin  in  Upham.  Indeed,  there  was  nobody  except  his 
three  old  friends,  his  house-keeper,  and  Abigail  Mer- 
ritt  and  Lucina. 

Jerome  did  not  look  at  Lucina,  nor  she  at  him  ; 
as  the  service  went  on,  he  heard  her  weeping  soft 
ly.  The  minister,  Solomon  Wells,  standing  near  the 
black  length  of  the  coffin,  lifted  his  voice  in  eulogy 
of  the  dead.  The  parlor  door-way  and  that  of  the  room 
beyond,  were  set  with  faces  straining  with  attention. 

The  minister's  voice  was  weak  ;  every  now  and 
then  people  looked  inquiringly  at  one  another,  and 
there  were  fine  hisses  of  interrogation.  This  parlor 
of  the  Means  house  had  never  been  used  since  the 
time  of  the  lawyer's  mother.  Women  had  been  hard 
at  work  there  all  day,  but  still  there  was  over  every 
thing  a  dim,  filmy  effect,  as  of  petrified  dust  and 
damp.  A  great  pier-glass  loomed  out  of  the  gloom 
of  a  wall  like  a  sheet  of  fog,  with  scarcely  a  gleam  of 
gold  left  in  its  tarnished  frame.  The  steel  engrav 
ings  over  the  mantel-shelf  and  between  the  windows 
showed  blue  hazes  of  mildew.  The  mahogany  and 
rosewood  of  the  furniture  was  white  in  places  ;  there 
had  been  a  good  fire  all  day,  but  all  the  covers  and 
the  carpet  steamed  in  one's  face  with  cold  damp. 
However,  scarcely  a  woman  in  Upham  but  would 
have  been  willing  to  be  a  legitimate  mourner  for  the 
sake  of  investigating  the  mysterious  best-room,  which 


456 


had  had  a  certain  glory  in  the  time  of  the  lawyer's 
mother. 

A  great  wreath  of  white  flowers  lay  on  the  coffin. 
Its  breathless  sweetness  clung  to  the  nostrils  and 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  house.  Now  and  then  a  curl 
of  pungent  smoke  floated  from  the  door-cracks  of  the 
air-tight  stove.  All  the  high  lights  in  the  room  were 
the  silver  of  the  coffin  trimmings  and  the  white  wreath. 

Solomon  Wells  had  a  difficult  task.  The  popular 
opinion  of  Colonel  Jack  Lamson  in  Upham  was  that 
he  had  led  a  hard  life,  and  had  hastened  his  end  by 
strong  drink.  He  could  neither  tell  the  commonly 
accepted  truth  out  of  respect  to  the  deceased,  nor  lies 
out  of  regard  to  morality.  However,  one  favorable 
point  in  the  character  of  the  deceased,  upon  which 
people  were  agreed,  was  his  geniality  and  bluff  hearti 
ness  of  good-humor.  That  the  minister  so  enlarged 
and  displayed  to  the  light  of  admiration  that  he  al 
most  made  of  it  the  aureole  of  a  saint.  He  was 
obliged  then  to  take  refuge  in  the  broad  field  of  gen 
eralities,  and  discourse  upon  his  text  of  "All  flesh  is 
as  grass/'  until  his  hearers  might  well  lose  sight  of 
the  importance  of  any  individual  flicker  of  a  grass 
blade  to  this  wind  or  that,  before  the  ultimate  end  of 
universal  hay. 

Solomon  Wells  was  not  a  brilliant  man,  but  he  had 
a  fine  instinct  for  other  people's  corns  and  prejudices. 
Everybody  agreed  that  his  remarks  were  able  ;  there 
were  no  dissenting  voices.  He  concluded  with  an  apt 
and  solemnly  impressive  reference  to  the  wheat  and 
the  chaff,  the  garnering  and  the  casting  into  furnace, 
leaving  the  application  concerning  the  deceased  wholly 
to  his  audience.  That  completed  his  success.  When 
he  sat  down  there  was  a  heaving  sigh  of  applause. 


457 


All  through  the  discourse,  the  hymns,  and  the  con 
cluding  prayer,  Lucina  sobbed  softly  at  intervals,  her 
face  hidden  in  her  cambric  handkerchief.  Somehow 
it  went  to  her  tender  soul  that  the  poor  Colonel  should 
be  lying  there  with  no  wife  or  child  to  mourn  him  ; 
then  she  had  loved  him,  as  she  had  loved  everybody 
and  everything  that  had  come  kindly  into  her  life. 
Every  time  she  thought  of  the  corals  and  the  beau 
tiful  ear-rings  which  the  Colonel  had  given  her  she 
wept  afresh.  Moreover,  the  motive  for  tears  is  always 
complex ;  hers  may  have  been  intensified  somewhat 
by  her  anxiety  about  her  lover  and  his  misfortune. 
Now  and  then  her  mother  touched  her  arm  remon- 
stratingly.  <l  Hush  ;  you'll  make  yourself  sick,  child," 
she  whispered,  softly  ;  but  poor  Lucina  was  helpless 
before  her  grief. 

The  Squire,  John  Jennings,  and  Lawyer  Means  all 
sat  by  the  dead  body  of  their  friend,  with  pale  and 
sternly  downcast  faces.  Jerome  looked  scarcely  less 
sad.  He  remembered  as  he  sat  there  every  kind 
word  which  the  Colonel  had  ever  spoken  to  him,  and 
every  one  seemed  magnified  a  thousand-fold.  This 
call  to  lend  his  living  strength  towards  the  bearing  of 
the  dead  man  to  his  last  home  seemed  like  a  call  to  a 
labor  of  love  and  gratitude,  though  he  was  still  much 
perplexed  that  he  should  have  been  selected. 

"  There's  Doctor  Prescott  and  Cyrus  Robinson  and 
Uncle  Ozias — any  one  of  them  nearer  his  own  age," 
he  thought.  It  was  not  until  the  next  day  but  one 
that  the  mystery  was  solved.  That  night  Lawyer 
Eliphalet  Means  came  to  see  Jerome,  and  informed  him 
that  the  Colonel  had  left  a  will,  whereby  he  was  en 
titled  to  a  legacy  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

COLONEL  LAMSOST'S  will  divided  sixty -five  thou 
sand  dollars  among  five  legatees — ten  thousand  was 
given  to  John  Jennings,  five  thousand  to  Eliphalet 
Means,  five  thousand  to  Eben  Merritt,  twenty  thou 
sand  to  Lucina  Merritt,  and  twenty-five  thousand  to 
Jerome  Edwards. 

Upham  was  not  astonished  by  the  first  four  be 
quests  ;  the  last  almost  struck  it  dumb.  "  What  in 
creation  did  he  leave  twenty -five  thousand  dollars 
to  that  feller  for  ?  He  wa'n't  nothin'  to  him,"  Simon 
Basset  stammered,  when  he  first  heard  the  news  on 
Tuesday  night  in  Robinson's  store.  His  face  was 
pale  and  gaping,  and  folk  stared  at  him. 

Suddenly  a  man  cried  out,  "  By  gosh,  J'rome  prom 
ised  to  give  the  hull  on't  away  !  Don't  ye  remem 
ber  ?" 

"  That's  so,"  cried  another  ;  "  an'  Doctor  Prescott 
an'  Basset  have  got  to  hand  out  ten  thousand  apiece 
if  he  does.  Fork  over,  Simon." 

' '  Guess  ye'll  wait  till  doomsday  afore  J'rome  sticks 
to  his  part  on't,"  said  Basset,  with  a  sneer ;  but  his 
lips  were  white. 

"No,  I  won't;  no,  I  won't," responded  the  man,  hi 
lariously.  "  J'rome's  goin'  to  do  it ;  Jake  here  says 
he  heard  so;  it  come  real  straight."  He  winked  at 
the  others,  who  closed  around,  grinning  maliciously. 

Basset   broke   through   them   with   an   oath    and 


459 


made  for  the  door.  ' '  It's  a  damned  lie,  I  tell  ye!"  he 

shouted,  hoarsely;  "an7  if  J'rome's  sech  a  Gr 

d fool,  Fll  see  ye  all  to  h ,  and  him  too,  afore 

I  pay  a  dollar  on't." 

When  the  door  had  slammed  behind  him,  the  men 
looked  at  one  another  curiously.  "You  don't  s'pose 
J'rome  will  do  it,"  one  said,  meditatively. 

"  He'll  do  it  when  the  river  runs  uphill  an'  crows 
are  white,"  answered  another,  with  a  hard  laugh. 

"I  dun'no',"  said  another,  doubtfully.  "J'rome 
Edwards  's  always  been  next-door  neighbor  to  a  fool, 
an'  there's  no  countin'  on  what  a  fool  '11  do  !" 

"  S'pose  you'd  calculate  on  comin'  in  for  some  of 
the  fool's  money,  if  he  should  give  it  up,"  remarked 
a  dry  and  unexpected  voice  at  his  elbow. 

The  man  looked  around  and  saw  Ozias  Lamb.  ' '  Ye 
don't  think  he'll  do  it,  do  ye  ?"  he  cried,  eagerly. 

"'Ain't  got  nothin'  to  say,"  replied  Ozias.  "I 
s'pose  when  a  fool  does  part  with  his  money,  there's 
always  wise  men  'nough  to  take  it." 

John  Upham,  who,  with  some  meagre  little  pur 
chases  in  hand,  had  been  listening  to  the  discussion, 
started  for  the  door.  When  he  had  opened  it,  he  turned 
and  faced  them.  "I'll  tell  ye  one  thing,  all  of  ye," 
he  said,  "an'  that  is,  he'll  do  it." 

There  was  a  clamor  of  astonishment.  "  How  d'ye 
know  it  ?  Did  he  tell  ye  so  ?"  they  shouted. 

' '  Wait  an'  see,"  returned  John  Upham,  and  went 
out. 

Plodding  along  his  homeward  road,  a  man  passed 
him  at  a  rapid  stride.  John  Upham  started.  "  Hullo, 
J'rome,"  he  called,  but  getting  no  response,  thought 
he  had  been  mistaken. 

However,  the  man  was  Jerome,  but  the  tumult  of 


460 


his  soul  almost  deafened  him  to  voices  of  the  flesh. 
He  was,  for  the  time,  out  of  the  plane  of  purely 
physical  sounds  on  one  of  the  spirit,  full  of  unuttera 
ble  groanings  and  strivings. 

When  Jerome  had  received  the  news  of  his  legacy, 
he  had  felt,  for  the  first  time  in  his  whole  life,  the 
joy  of  sudden  acquisition  and  possession.  His  head 
reeled  with  it ;  he  was,  in  a  sense,  intoxicated.  "  Am 
I  rich  ?  / — 19"  he  asked  himself.  Pleasures  hith 
erto  out  of  his  imagination  of  possession  seemed  to 
float  within  his  reach  on  this  golden  tide  of  wealth. 

He  would  have  been  more  than  man  had  not  this 
first  grasp  of  the  divining-rod  of  the  pleasures  of 
earth  filled  him  with  the  lust  of  them.  Even  his 
love  for  Lucina,  and  his  parents  and  sister,  seemed 
for  a  while  subverted  by  that  love  for  himself,  to 
which  the  chance  of  its  gratification  gave  rise.  Van 
ities  which  he  had  never  known  within  his  nature, 
and  petty  emulations,  rose  thick,  like  a  crop  of  weeds 
on  a  rich  soil.  He  saw  himself  in  broadcloth  and 
fine  linen,  with  a  great  festoon  of  gold  chain  on  his 
breast  and  a  gold  watch  in  pocket,  walking  with 
haughty  flourishes  of  a  cane,  or  riding  in  his  own 
carriage.  He  saw  himself  in  a  new  house,  grander 
than  Doctor  Prescott's  ;  he  saw  his  parlor  more  richly 
furnished,  Ms  wife,  his  mother  and  sister  more  fine 
ly  attired  than  any  women  in  the  village,  Ms  father 
throned  like  a  king  in  the  late  sunshine  of  life.  Je 
rome  had  usually  sound  financial  judgment  and  con 
servative  estimate  of  the  value  of  money,  but  now  he 
thought  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  as  almost 
unlimited  wealth. 

That  night,  after  he  had  the  news  from  Lawyer 
Means,  he  could  not  sleep  until  nearly  morning.  He 


I'LL  TELL   YE   ONE   THING,   ALL   OF   YE'" 


461 


lay  awake,  spending,  mentally,  principal  and  interest 
of  his  little  fortune  over  and  over,  and  spending,  be 
sides  that,  much  of  the  singleness  and  unselfishness  of 
his  own  heart. 

However,  after  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep,  which 
seemed  to  turn,  as  sleep  sometimes  will,  the  erratic 
currents  of  his  mind  back  into  the  old  channels,  from 
which  it  had  been  forced  by  this  earthquake  stress  of 
life,  he  experienced  a  complete  revulsion. 

He  remembered — what  he  had  either  forgotten  or 
ignored — the  scene  in  the  store,  his  vow,  the  draw 
ing  up  of  the  document  which  registered  it.  He 
awoke  into  this  memory  as  into  a  chilling  atmos 
phere,  and  went  down-stairs  with  a  grave  face.  He 
met  his  mother's  and  sister's  almost  hysterical  de 
light,  which  had  not  abated  overnight,  his  father's 
child-like  wonder  and  admiration,  soberly;  as  soon  as 
he  could,  he  got  away  to  his  work,  which  was  still  in 
the  wood  where  his  mill  had  stood.  Cheeseman  had 
gone  home,,  still  Jerome  was  not  alone  much  of  the 
day.  People  came  to  congratulate  him,  also  out  of 
curiosity.  The  little  village  was  wild  over  the  lega 
cy,  and  the  document  concerning  its  division  among 
the  poor. 

There  were  two  distinct  factions,  one  upholding  the 
belief  that  Jerome  would  remain  true  to  his  promise, 
the  other  full  of  scoffing  and  scorn  at  the  insanity  of 
it.  Both  factions  invaded  Jerome,  and  while  neither 
broached  the  matter  directly,  strove  by  indirect  and 
sly  methods  to  ascertain  his  mind. 

"  S'pose  ye'll  quit  work  now,  J'rome  ;  s'prised  to 
see  ye  here  this  morniir,"  said  one. 

"  When  ye  goin'  to  run  for  Congress,  J'rome  ?" 
asked  another. 


462 


Still  another  inquired,  meaningly,  with  a  sly  wink 
at  his  comrades,  how  much  money  he  was  going  to 
allow  for  home  missions  ?  and  another,  when  he  was 
going  to  Boston  to  buy  his  gold  watch  and  chain  ? 
Until  he  went  home  at  night  he  was  haunted  by  the 
doubtful  attention  of  the  idle  portion,  just  now  large, 
of  the  village  population. 

It  was  too  early  for  planting,  and  quite  recently 
the  supply  of  work  from  the  Dale  shoe-dealer  had 
been  scanty.  People  were  at  a  loss  to  account  for  it, 
as  the  business  had  increased  during  the  last  two 
years,  and  many  TJpham  men  had  been  employed. 
Lately  there  had  been  a  rumor  as  to  the  cause,  but 
few  had  given  it  credence. 

This  afternoon,  however,  it  was  confirmed.  Just 
before  dark,  a  man,  breathless,  as  if  he  had  been  run 
ning,  joined  the  knot  of  loafers.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
panting,  "  I've  found  out  why  the  shoes  have  been  so 
scarce." 

The  others  stared  at  him,  inquiringly. 

"  That — durned  varmint,  over  to  Dale,  he's  bought 
the  old  meetm'-house,  an" — sent  down  to  Boston  fer 
— some  machines,  an7 — he's  goin'  to  have  a  factory. 
There's  no  more  handwork  to  be  done;  that's  the  rea 
son  he's  been  holdin'  it  back." 

"How'd  ye  find  it  out?  Who  told  ye  ?"  asked 
one  and  another,  scowling. 

"  Saw  'em,  with  my  own  eyes,  unloadin'  of  the  new 
machines  at  the  railroad,  an'  saw  the  gang  of  men 
he's  got  to  work  'em  hangin'  round  his  store.  It's 
the  railroad  that's  done  it.  It's  made  freight  to 
Boston  cheap  enough  so's  he  can  make  it  pay.  Kob- 
inson's  goin'  to  give  up  shoes  here.  I  had  it  straight. 
He  don't  want  to  compete  with  machine-work,  and 


463 


he  don't  want  to  put  in  machines  himself.  It  was  an 
unlucky  day  for  Upham  when  that  railroad  went 
through  Dale." 

"  Curse  the  railroad,  an'  curse  all  the  new  ideas 
that  take  the  bread  out  of  poor  men's  mouths  to  give 
it  to  the  rich/'  said  a  bitter  voice,  and  there  was  a 
hoarse  amen  from  the  crowd. 

"I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  life  if  I  could  raise 
enough  money,  or,  if  a  few  of  us  together  could  raise 
enough  money,  to  start  a  factory  in  Upham,"  cried  a 
man,  fiercely,  "then  we'd  see  whether  it  was  brains 
as  good  as  other  men's  that  were  lacking  !" 

The  man,  who  had  not  been  there  long,  was  quite 
young,  not  much  older  than  Jerome,  and  had  a  keen, 
thin  face,  with  nervous  red  spots  coming  and  going 
in  his  cheeks,  and  fiery,  deep-set  eyes.  He  had  the 
reputation  of  being  very  smart  and  energetic,  and 
having  considerable  self-taught  book-knowledge.  He 
had  a  wife  and  two  babies,  and  was,  if  the  truth  were 
told,  staying  away  from  home  that  day  that  his  wife, 
who  was  a  delicate,  anxious  young  thing,  might  think 
he  was  at  work.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since  morn 
ing. 

"  We  shouldn't  be  no  better  off,  if  you  put  ma 
chines  in  your  factory,"  said  a  squat,  elderly  man, 
with  a  surly  overhanging  brow  and  a  dull  weight  of 
jaw. 

"I  guess  we  who  are  not  too  old  to  learn  could 
run  machines  as  well  as  anybody,  if  we  tried,"  re 
turned  the  young  man,  scornfully  ;  "  and  as  for  the 
rest,  handwork  is  always  going  to  have  a  market 
value,  and  there'll  always  be  some  sort  of  a  demand 
for  it.  It  would  go  hard  if  we  couldn't  give  those 
that  couldn't  run  machines  something  to  do,  if  we 


464 


had  the  factory;  but  we  haven't,  and,  what's  more,  we 
sha'n't  have."  As  he  spoke,  he  went  over  to  Je 
rome,  who  was  prying  up  a  heavy  log,  and  lifted  with 
him. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  form  a  company,  if  you 
had  enough  money  between  you  ?"  Jerome  asked  him. 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  we'd  be  fools  if  we  didn't,"  he 
said. 

"  I  say,  curse  the  railroads  and  the  machines  !  I 
wish  every  railroad  track  in  the  country  was  tore  up  ! 
I  wish  every  train  of  cars  was  kindlin'-wood,  an'  all 
the  engine  wheels  an'  the  machine  wheels  would  lock, 
till  the  crack  of  doom  I"  shouted  the  bitter  voice 
again. 

"  There's  no  use  in  damning  progress  because  we 
happen  to  be  in  the  way  of  it.  I'd  rather  be  run  over 
than  lock  the  wheels  myself,"  Jerome  said,  suddenly. 

"  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  ye  would  or  not," 
the  voice  returned,  with  sarcastic  meaning.  There 
was  a  smothered  chuckle  from  the  crowd,  which  be 
gan  to  disperse ;  the  shadows  were  getting  thick  in 
the  wood. 

After  supper  that  night,  Jerome  went  up  to  his 
room,  and  sat  down  at  his  window.  His  curtain  was 
pulled  high.  He  looked  out  into  the  darkness  and 
tried  to  think,  but  directly  a  door  slammed,  and  a 
shrill  babble  of  feminine  tongues  began  in  the  room 
below.  Belinda  Lamb  had  arrived. 

Jerome  got  his  hat,  stole  softly  down-stairs,  and 
out  of  the  front  door.  ''I've  got  to  be  alone  some 
where,  where  I  can  think,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
forthwith  made  for  the  site  of  his  mill ;  he  could  be 
sure  of  solitude  there  at  that  hour. 

When  he  arrived,  he  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  logs  and 


465 


gazed  unseeingly  at  the  broad  current  of  the  brook, 
silvering  out  of  the  shadows  to  the  light  of  a  young 
moon.  The  roar  of  it  was  loud  in  his  ears,  but  he 
did  not  seem  to  hear  it.  There  are  times  when  the 
spirit  of  the  living  so  intensifies  that  it  comes  into  a 
silence  and  darkness  of  nature  like  death. 

Jerome,  in  the  solitude  of  the  woods,  without  an 
other  human  soul  near,  could  concentrate  his  own 
into  full  action.  As  he  sat  there,  he  began  to  defend 
his  own  case  like  a  lawyer  against  a  mighty  opponent, 
whom  he  recognized  from  the  dogmas  of  orthodoxy, 
and  also  from  an  insight  inherited  from  generations 
of  Calvinistic  ancestors,  as  his  own  conscience. 

Jerome  presented  his  case  tersely,  the  arguments 
were  all  clearly  determined  beforehand.  "  This  twen 
ty-five  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  "will  lift  me  and 
mine  out  of  grinding  poverty.  If  I  give  it  up,  my 
father  and  mother  and  sister  will  have  none  of  it. 
Father  has  come  home  unfit  for  any  further  struggles ; 
mother  has  aged  during  the  last  few  days.  She  was 
nerved  up  to  bear  trouble,  the  shock  of  joy  has  taken 
her  last  strength.  She  can  do  little  now.  This  money 
will  make  them  happy  and  comfortable  through  their 
last  days.  If  I  give  up  this  money,  they  may  come  to 
want.  I  have  lost  my  work  in  Dale,  like  the  rest ;  I 
may  not  be  able  to  get  a  living,  even ;  we  may  all 
suffer.  This  money  will  give  my  sister  a  marriage- 
portion,  and  possibly  influence  Doctor  Prescott  to 
favor  his  son's  choice.  If  that  does  not,  my  failure  to 
carry  out  my  part  of  the  agreement,  and  the  doctor's 
consequent  release  from  his,  may  influence  him  to 
make  no  further  opposition.  If  I  give  the  money,  and 
so  force  the  doctor  to  give  his,  or  put  him  to  shame 
for  refusing,  Elmira  can  never  marry  Lawrence.  I 

30 


466 


can  give  more  to  Uncle  Ozias  than  he  would  receive 
as  his  share  of  a  common  division.  I  can  send  Henry 
Judd  to  Boston  to  have  his  eyes  cured.  And — I  can 
marry  Lucina  Merritt.  She  loves  me,  she  is  waiting 
for  me.  I  have  not  answered  her  letter.  She  is  won 
dering  now  why  I  do  not  come.  If  I  give  up  the 
money,  I  can  never  marry  her — I  can  never  come." 

Then  the  great  still  voice,  which  was,  to  his  con 
ception,  within  him,  yet  without,  through  all  nature, 
had  its  turn,  and  Jerome  listened. 

Then  he  answered,  fiercely,  as  to  spoken  arguments. 
' '  I  know  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  parts  ;  I  know 
that  to  make  a  whole  village  prosperous  and  happy 
is  more  than  the  welfare  of  three  or  four,  but  the 
three  and  the  four  come  first,  and  that  which  I  would 
have  for  myself  is  divine,  and  of  God,  and  I  cannot 
be  what  I  would  be  without  it,  for  no  man  who  hun 
gers  gets  his  full  strength.  If  I  give  this,  it  is  all.  I 
can  make  no  more  of  my  life." 

He  looked  as  if  he  listened  again  for  a  moment, 
and  then  stood  up.  "Well,"  he  said,  "it  is  true,  if 
a  man  gives  his  all  he  can  do  no  more,  and  no  more 
can  be  asked  of  him.  What  I  have  said  I  will  do,  I 
will  do,  and  I  will  save  neither  myself  nor  mine  by  a 
lie  which  I  must  lie  to — my  own  soul  \" 

Jerome  went  down  the  path  to  the  road,  but  stopped 
suddenly,  as  if  he  had  got  a  blow.  "  Oh,  my  God  !" 
he  cried,  "Lucina!"  All  at  once  a  consideration 
had  struck  him  which  had  never  fully  done  so  before. 
All  at  once  he  grasped  the  possibility  that  Lucina 
might  suffer  from  his  sacrifice  as  much  as  he.  "I  can 
bear  it— myself,"  he  groaned,  "  but  Lucina,  Lucina  ; 
suppose— it  should  kill  her— suppose  it  should— break 
her  heart.  I  am  stronger  to  suffer  than  she.  If  I 


467 


could  bear  hers  and  mine,  if  I  could  bear  it  all.  Oh, 
Lucina,  I  cannot  hurt  you — I  cannot,  I  cannot !  It  is 
too  much  to  ask.  God,  I  cannot !" 

Jerome  stood  still,  in  an  involuntary  attitude  of 
defiance.  His  arm  was  raised,  his  fist  clinched,  as 
if  for  a  blow  ;  his  face  uplifted  with  stern  reprisal; 
then  his  arm  dropped,  his  tense  muscles  relaxed.  "I 
could  not  marry  her  if  I  did  not  give  it  up/' he  said. 
"I  should  not  be  worthy  of  her;  there  is  no  other 
way." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

JEROME  went  to  Lawyer  Means's  that  night.  Means, 
himself,  answered  his  knock,  and  Jerome  opened 
abruptly  upon  the  subject  in  his  mind.  "I  want 
to  give  away  that  money,  as  I  said  I  would,"  he  de 
clared. 

The  lawyer  peered  above  a  flaring  candle  into  the 
darkness.  "  Oh,  it  is  you,  is  it !  Come  in." 

"No,  I  can't  come  in.  It  isn't  necessary.  I  have 
nothing  to  say  but  that.  I  want  to  give  away  the 
money,  according  to  that  paper  yon  drew  up,  and  I 
want  you  to  arrange  it." 

"  You've  made  up  your  mind  to  keep  that  fool's 
promise,  have  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Look  here,  young  man,  have  you  thought  this 
over  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  You  know  what  you're  going  to  lose.  You  re 
member  that  your  own  family  —  your  father  and 
mother  and  sister— can't  profit  by  the  gift  ?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  I  have  thought  it  all  over." 

"  Do  you  realize  that  if  you  stick  to  your  part  of 
the  bargain,  it  does  not  follow  that  the  doctor  and 
Basset  will  stick  to  theirs  ?" 

Jerome  stared  at  him.  "Didn't  they  sign  that  docu 
ment  before  witnesses  ?" 

The  lawyer  laughed.    "  That  document  isn't  worth 


469 


the  paper  it's  written  on.  It  was  all  horse-play.  Didn't 
you  know  that,  Jerome  ?" 

"  Did  the  doctor  and  Basset  know  it  ?" 

"  The  doctor  did.  He  wouldn't  have  signed,  other 
wise.  As  for  Basset — well,  I  don't  know,  but  if  he 
comes  and  asks  me,  as  he  will  before  he  unties  his 
purse  strings,  I  shall  tell  him  the  truth  about  it,  as 
I'm  bound  to,  and  not  a  dollar  will  he  part  with  after 
he  finds  out  that  he  hasn't  got  to.  You  can  judge 
for  yourself  whether  Doctor  Seth  Prescott  is  likely 
to  fling  away  a  fourth  of  his  property  in  any  such  fool 
fashion  as  this." 

1  f  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  makes  any  difference  to 
me  whether  they  give  or  not,"  said  Jerome,  proudly. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  abide  by  your  part  of 
the  agreement  if  the  others  do  not  abide  by  theirs  ?" 

"  I  mean,  that  I  keep  my  promise  when  I  can ;  and 
if  every  other  man  under  G-od's  footstool  breaks  his, 
it  is  no  reason  why  I  should  break  mine." 

"  That  sounds  very  fine,"  said  the  lawyer,  dryly ; 
"  but  do  you  realize,  my  young  friend,  how  far  your 
large  fortune  alone  would  go  when  divided  among 
the  poor  of  this  village  ?" 

' '  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  reckoned  it  up.  There  are 
about  one  hundred  who  would  come  under  the  terms 
of  the  agreement.  My  money  alone,  divided  among 
them,  would  give  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol 
lars  apiece." 

"  That  is  a  large  sum." 

"  It  is  large  to  a  man  who  has  never  seen  fifty  dol 
lars  at  once  in  his  hand,  and  it  is  large  when  several 
unite  and  form  a  company  for  a  new  factory,  with 
machines." 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  do  that  ?" 


470 


"  Yes,  sir.  Henry  Eames  will  set  it  going ;  give 
him  a  chance." 

"Why  don't  you,  instead  of  parting  with  your 
money,  set  up  the  factory  yourself,  and  employ  the 
whole  village  ?" 

"That  is  not  what  I  said  I  would  do,  and  it  is 
better  for  the  village  to  employ  itself.  I  might  fail, 
or  my  factory  might  go,  as  my  mill  has/7 

"How  long  do  you  suppose  it  will  be  that  every 
man  will  have  his  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  after 
you  have  given  it  to  him  ?  Tell  me  that,  if  you  can." 

"  That  isn't  my  lookout." 

"  Why  isn't  it  your  lookout  ?  A  careless  giver  is 
as  bad  as  a  thief,  sir." 

"I  am  not  a  careless  giver,"  replied  Jerome,  stout 
ly.  "I  can't  tell,  and  no  man  can  tell,  how  long 
they  will  keep  what  I  give  them,  or  how  long  it  will 
be  before  the  stingiest  and  wisest  get  their  shares 
away  from  the  weak  ;  but  that  is  no  more  reason 
why  I  should  not  give  this  money  than  it  is  a  rea 
son  why  the  Lord  Almighty  should  not  furnish  us 
all  with  fingers  and  toes,  and  our  five  senses,  and 
our  stomachs." 

"  You  might  add,  our  immortal  souls,  which  the 
parsons  say  we'll  get  snatched  away  from  us  if  we 
don't  watch  out,"  said  Means,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Well,  Jerome,  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  attend  to  this 
business  to-night.  I  am  worn  out,  too,  by  what  I 
have  been  through  lately.  Come  to-morrow,  and,  if 
you  are  of  the  same  mind,  we'll  fix  it  up." 

Somewhat  to  Jerome's  surprise,  the  lawyer  ex 
tended  a  lean,  brown  hand  for  his,  which  he  shook 
warmly,  with  a  hearty  "  Good-night,  sir." 

"I  don't  believe  he  was  trying  to  hinder  me  from 


471 


giving  it,  after  all/'  Jerome  thought,  as  he  went  down 
the  hill. 

Eliphalet  Means,  shuffling  in  loose  slippers,  return 
ed  to  his  sitting-room,  where  were  John  Jennings  and 
Eben  Merritt.  There  were  no  cards,  and  no  punch, 
and  no  conviviality  for  the  three  bereaved  friends 
that  night.  The  three  sat  before  the  fire,  and  each 
smoked  a  melancholy  pipe,  and  each,  when  he  looked 
at  or  spoke  to  the  others,  looked  and  spoke,  what 
ever  his  words  might  be,  to  the  memory  of  their  dead 
comrade. 

The  chair  in  which  the  Colonel  had  been  used  to 
sit  stood  a  little  aloof,  at  a  corner  of  the  fireplace. 
Often  one  of  the  trio  would  eye  it  with  furtive  mourn- 
fulness,  looking  away  again  directly  without  a  glance 
at  the  others. 

When  Means  entered,  he  was  smiling,  for  the  first 
time  that  evening.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen 
something  to-night  that  I  have  never  seen  before,  that 
I  shall  never  see  again,  and  that  no  man  in  this  town 
has  ever  seen  before,  or  will  see  again,  unless  he  lives 
till  the  millennium." 

The  others  stared  at  him.  "  What  d'ye  mean  ?" 
asked  the  Squire. 

"  I  have  seen  something  rarer  than  a  white  black 
bird,  and  harder  to  discover  than  the  north  pole.  I 
have  seen  a  poor  man,  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind, 
give  away  every  dollar  of  a  fortune  within  three  days 
after  he  got  it." 

The  two  men  looked  at  him,  speechless.  "He 
hasn't !"  gasped  the  Squire,  finally. 

"He  has." 

"By  the  Lord  Harry!" 

"Well,"  said  John   Jennings,  slowly,  "if  I  had 


472 


started  out  on  a  search  for  such  a  man  I  should  have 
wanted  more  than  Diogenes's  lantern." 

"And  I  should  have  called  for  blue -lights  and 
rockets,  the  aurora  borealis,  chain  lightning,  the  solar 
system,  and  the  eternal  light  of  nature,  but  I  discov 
ered  him  with  a  penny  dip/'  said  Eliphalet  Means, 
chuckling.  He  stood  on  the  hearth  before  his  two 
friends,  his  back  to  the  fire  ;  it  was  a  cool  night,  and 
he  had  got  chilled  at  the  open  door. 

"He  is  going  to  give  away  the  whole  of  it  ?"  John 
Jennings  said,  with  wondering  rumination. 

"Every  dollar." 

Means  looked  at  them,  all  the  shrewd  humor  faded 
out  of  his  face.  "  I've  got  something  to  tell  both  of 
you,"  he  said,  gravely  ;  "and,  Eben,  while  I  think  of 
it,  I  have  a  letter  that  he  wanted  given  to  your  daugh 
ter.  Eemind  me  to  hand  it  over  to  you  to  take  to 
her  when  you  go  home  to-night.  Fve  got  something 
to  tell  you  ;  the  time  has  come  ;  lie  said  it  would.  I 
didn't  half  believe  it,  God  forgive  me.  I  tell  you,  I've 
got  a  keen  scent  for  the  bad  in  human  nature,  but  he 
had  a  keen  one  for  the  good.  He'd  have  made  a  sharp 
counsel  on  the  right  side.  After  he  got  his  money,  he 
used  to  talk  day  and  night  about  the  poverty  of  this 
town.  He  had  a  great  heart.  He — wanted  and  in 
tended  that  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to  go  just  the 
way  it  is  going."  The  lawyer,  with  every  word,  shook 
his  skinny  right  hand  before  the  others'  faces ;  he 
paused  a  second  and  looked  at  them  with  solemn  im- 
pressiveness ;  then  he  continued:  "He  wanted  to 
give  that  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  in  equal  parts, 
to  the  poor  of  this  town,  as  indicated  in  that  instru 
ment  which  I  drew  up  at  Robinson's  for  Prescott  and 
Basset,  but  instead  of  giving  it  himself  he  left  it  to 


473 


Jerome  Edwards  to  give.  He  said  that  it  would 
amount  to  the  same  thing,  and  I  tried  to  argue  him 
out  of  it.  I  did  not  believe  any  man  could  stand  the 
temptation  of  a  fortune  between  his  fingers,  but  lie 
said  Jerome  Edwards  could  and  would,  and  the  mon 
ey  was  as  sure  to  go  as  he  intended  it  to  as  if  he  doled 
it  out  himself  in  dollars  and  cents,  and  he  was  right. 
God  bless  him !  And — that  twenty -five  thousand  dol 
lars  is  going  just  the  way  he  meant  it  to  go.33 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  next  day  Jerome  went  again  to  Lawyer  Means's. 
It  was  near  noon  when  he  returned  ;  he  met  many 
people  on  the  road,  and  they  all  looked  at  him  strange 
ly.  Men  stood  in  knots,  and  the  hum  of  their  con 
versation  died  low  when  he  drew  near.  They  nodded 
to  him  with  curious  respect  and  formality ;  after  he 
had  passed,  the  rumble  of  voices  began  anew.  One 
woman,  whom  he  met  just  before  he  turned  the  cor 
ner  of  his  own  road,  stopped  and  held  out  a  slender, 
trembling  hand. 

"I  want  to  shake  hands  with  you,  Jerome/' she 
said,  in  a  sweet,  hysterical  voice.  Then  she  raised  to 
his  a  worn  face,  with  the  piteous  downward  lines  of 
old  tears  at  mouth  and  eyes,  and  a  rasped  red,  as  of 
tears  and  frost,  on  thin  cheeks.  "That  money  is 
goin'  to  save  my  little  home  for  me  ;  I  didn't  know 
but  Fd  got  to  go  on  the  town.  God  bless  you, 
J'rome,"  she  whispered,  quaveringly. 

"The  Colonel's  the  one  to  be  thanked,"  Jerome 
said. 

"  I  come  under  that  agreement,  don't  I  ?"  she 
asked,  anxiously.  "  They  told  me  that  lone  women 
without  anybody  to  support  'em  came  under  it." 

"Yes,  you  do,  Miss  Patch." 

"Oh,  God  bless  you,  God  bless  you,  J'rome  Ed 
wards  !"  she  cried,  with  a  fervor  strange  upon  a  New 
England  tongue. 


475 


"  Colonel  Lamson  is  the  one  to  have  the  thanks 
and  the  credit,"  Jerome  repeated,  pushing  gently 
past  her.  His  face  was  hot.  He  wondered,  as  he 
approached  his  house,  if  his  own  family  had  heard 
the  news.  As  soon  as  he  opened  the  door  he  saw 
that  they  had.  Elmira  did  not  lift  a  white,  dumbly 
accusing  face  from  her  work  ;  his  father  looked  at 
him  with  curious,  open-mouthed  wonder  ;  his  mother 
spoke. 

"I  want  to  know  if  it's  true,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  mother,  it  is." 

"You've  given  it  all  away  ?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"  Your  own  folks  won't  get  none  of  it  ?" 

Jerome  shook  his  head.  He  had  a  feeling  as  if  he 
were  denying  his  own  flesh  and  blood ;  for  the  mo 
ment  even  his  own  conscience  turned  upon  him,  and 
accused  him  of  injustice  and  lack  of  filial  love  and 
gratitude. 

Ann  Edwards  looked  at  her  son,  with  a  face  of 
pale  recrimination  and  awe.  She  opened  her  mouth 
to  speak,  then  closed  it  without  a  word.  "I  never 
had  a  black  silk  dress  in  my  life,"  said  she,  finally,  in 
a  shaking  voice,  and  that  was  all  the  reproach  which 
she  ever  oifered. 

"You  shall  have  a  black  silk  dress  anyhow,  moth 
er,"  Jerome  replied,  piteously.  He  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  his  father  got  up  and  followed  him,  clos 
ing  the  door  mysteriously. 

"That  was  a  good  deal  to  give  away,  J'rome,"  he 
whispered. 

"I  know  it,  father,  and  I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the 
bone  to  make  it  good  to  you  and  mother.  That's  all 
I've  got  to  live  for  now." 


"J'rome,"  whispered  the  father,  thrusting  his  old 
face  into  his  son's,  with  an  angelic  expression. 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?" 

"  You  shall  have  my  fifteen  hundred,  an9  build  a 
new  mill." 

"Father,  Fd  die  before  Fd  touch  a  dollar  of  your 
money  !"  cried  Jerome,  passionately,  and,  tears  in 
his  eyes,  flung  away  out  to  the  barn,  whither  he  was 
bound,  to  feed  the  horse. 

He  watched  all  day  for  a  chance  to  speak  alone  to 
Elmira,  but  she  gave  him  none,  until  after  supper 
that  night.  Then,  when  he  beckoned  her  into  the 
parlor,  she  followed  him. 

"Elmira,"  he  said,  "don't  feel  any  worse  about 
this  than  you  can  help.  I  had  to  do  it." 

"If  you  care  more  about  strangers  than  you  do 
about  your  own,  that  is  all  there  is  to  it,"  she  said, 
in  a  quiet  voice,  looking  coldly  in  his  face. 

"Elmira,  it  isn't  that.     You  don't  understand." 

"I  have  said  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  Let  me  tell  you—' 

"I  have  heard  all  I  want  to." 

"Elmira,  don't  give  up  so.  Maybe  things  will  be 
brighter  somehow.  I  had  to  do  my  duty." 

"It  is  a  noble  thing  to  do  your  duty,"  she  said, 
with  a  bitter  smile  on  her  little  face.  Elmira,  that 
night,  seemed  like  a  stranger  to  Jerome,  and  maybe 
to  herself.  Despair  had  upstirred  from  the  depths 
of  her  nature  strange,  tigerish  instincts,  which  oth 
erwise  might  have  slept  there  unmanifest  forever. 
She  also  had  not  failed  to  appreciate  Jerome's  action 
in  all  its  bearings  upon  herself  and  Lawrence  Pres- 
cott,  and,  when  she  heard  of  it,  had  given  up  all  her 
longing  hope  of  happiness. 


477 


' '  You  have  to  do  it,  whether  it  is  noble  or  not/' 
returned  Jerome. 

"  Of  course,,"  said  she,  "and  if  your  sister  is  in 
the  way  of  it,  trample  her  down  ;  don't  stop  for  that." 
She  went  out,  but  turned  back,  and  added,  harshly, 
"I  saw  Jake  Noyes  this  afternoon  on  my  way  home. 
He  was  coming  here  to  ask  you  to  go  up  to  Doctor 
Prescott's  this  evening  ;  he  wants  to  see  you.  If  he 
says  anything  about  me,  you  can  tell  him  that  as  long 
as  he  an.d  you  do  your  duty,  I  am  satisfied.  I  ask 
nothing  more,  not  even  his  precious  son."  Elmira 
rushed  across  the  entry,  with  a  dry  sob.  Jerome 
stood  still  a  moment ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
undertaken  more  than  he  could  bear.  A  dreadful 
thought  came  to  him ;  suppose  Lucina  were  to  look 
upon  him  as  his  sister  did.  Suppose  she  were  to  take 
it  all  in  the  same  way.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  she 
could,  but  she  was  a  woman,  like  his  sister,  and  how 
could  he  tell  ? 

Jerome  got  his  hat  and  went  to  Doctor  Prescott's. 
He  wondered  why  he  had  been  summoned  there,  and 
braced  himself  for  almost  anything  in  the  way  of 
contumely,  but  with  no  dread  of  it.  The  prospect 
of  legitimate  combat,  where  he  could  hit  back,  act 
ed  like  a  stimulant  after  his  experience  with  his 
sister. 

Lawrence  Prescott  answered  his  knock,  and  Je 
rome  wondered,  vaguely,  at  his  radiant  welcome.  He 
shook  his  hand  with  warm  emphasis.  ( '  Father  is  in 
the  study,"  he  said ;  "  walk  right  in — walk  right  in, 
Jerome."  Then  he  added,  speaking  close  to  Je 
rome's  ear,  "  God  bless  you,  old  fellow  !" 

Jerome  gave  an  astonished  glance  at  him  as  he 
went  into  the  study,  whose  door  stood  open.  Doctor 


478 


Prescott  was  seated  at  his  desk,  his  back  towards  the 
entrance. 

"  Good-evening.  Sit  down/'  he  said,  curtly,  with 
out  turning  his  head. 

"  Good-evening,  sir/'  replied  Jerome,  but  remained 
standing.  He  stood  still,  and  stared,  with  that  cu 
rious  retrospection  into  which  the  mind  can  often 
be  diverted  from  even  its  intensest  channels,  at  the 
cases  of  leather-bound  books  and  the  grimy  medicine- 
bottles,  green  and  brown  with  the  sediments  of  old 
doses,  which  had  so  impressed  him  in  his  childhood. 
He  saw,  with  an  acute  throb  of  memory,  the  old  va 
lerian  bottle,  catching  the  light  like  liquid  ruby.  He 
had  stepped  back  so  completely  into  his  past,  of  a 
little,  pitiful  suppliant,  yet  never  wholly  intimidated, 
boy,  in  this  gloomy,  pungent  interior,  that  he  start 
ed,  as  across  a  chasm  of  time,  when  the  doctor  arose, 
came  forward,  and  spoke  again.  "Be  seated,"  he 
said,  with  an  imperious  wave  towards  a  chair,  and 
took  one  for  himself. 

Jerome  sat  down  ;  in  spite  of  himself,  as  he  looked 
at  the  doctor  opposite,  the  same  old  indignant,  yet 
none  the  less  vital,  sense  of  subjection  in  the  pres 
ence  of  superiority  was  over  him  as  in  his  childhood. 
He  saw  again  Doctor  Seth  Prescott  as  the  incarna 
tion  of  force  and  power.  There  was,  in  truth,  some 
thing  majestic  about  the  man — he  was  an  autocrat  in 
a  narrow  sphere  ;  but  his  autocracy  was  genuine. 
The  czar  of  a  little  New  England  village  may  be  as 
real  in  quality  as  the  Czar  of  all  the  Eussias. 

The  doctor  began  to  speak,  moving  his  finely  cut 
lips  with  clear  precision. 

"  I  understand/'  said  he,  "  that  you  have  fulfilled 
the  promise  which  you  made  in  my  presence  several 


479 


years  ago,  to  give  away  twenty-five  thousand  dollars, 
should  such  a  sum  be  given  to  you.  Am  I  right  in 
so  understanding  ?" 

"Yes,  sir/' 

"  Do  you  know  that  the  instrument,  drawn  up  by 
Lawyer  Means  at  that  time  is  illegal,  that  no  obliga 
tion  stated  therein  could  be  enforced  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Who  told  you— Mr.  Means  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Before  you  gave  the  money  or  after  ?" 

"Before." 

"  You  know  that  I  am  not  under  the  slightest  legal 
restriction  to  give  the  sum  for  which  I  stand  pledged 
in  that  instrument,  even  though  you  have  fulfilled 
your  part  of  the  agreement." 

"  It  depends  upon  what  you  consider  a  legal  restric 
tion." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  make  no  promise  which  is  not  a 
legal  restriction  upon  myself,"  replied  Jerome,  with 
a  proud  look  at  the  other  man. 

"Neither  do  I,"  returned  the  doctor,  with  a  look 
as  proud ;  "  but  your  remark  is  simply  a  quibble,  which 
we  will  pass  over.  I  say  again,  that  I  am  under  no 
legal  restriction,  in  the  common  acceptance  of  that 
term,  to  give  a  fourth  part  of  my  property  to  the  poor 
of  this  town.  That  you  admit  ?" 

Jerome  nodded. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  "knowing  that  fact 
myself,  having  it  admitted  by  you  and  all  others,  I 
have  yet  determined  to  abide  by  my  part  of  that  in 
strument,  and  relinquish  one  fourth  part  of  the  prop 
erty  of  which  I  stand  possessed." 


Jerome  started;  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears. 

"  But/'  the  doctor  continued,  "  since  I  am  in  no 
wise  bound  by  the  terms  of  the  instrument,  as  drawn 
up  by  Lawyer  Means,  I  propose  to  alter  some  of  them, 
as  I  deem  judicious  for  the  public  welfare.  One- 
fourth  of  my  property,  which  consists  largely  of  real 
estate,  cannot  manifestly  be  given  in  ready  money 
without  great  delay  and  loss.  Therefore  I  propose 
giving  to  a  large  extent  in  land,  and  in  a  few  cases 
liquidations  of  mortgage  deeds  ;  and — I  also  propose 
giving  in  such  proportions  and  to  such  individuals 
as  I  shall  approve  and  select ;  a  strictly  indiscrimi 
nate  division  is  directly  opposed  to  my  views.  I  trust 
that  you  do  not  consider  that  this  method  is  to  be  ob 
jected  to  on  the  grounds  of  any  infringement  upon 
my  legal  restrictions." 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't,"  replied  Jerome. 

"  There  is  one  other  point,  then  I  have  done,"  said 
Doctor  Prescott.  "  I  have  withdrawn  my  objection 
to  my  son's  marriage  with  your  sister.  That  is  all.  I 
have  said  and  heard  all  I  wish,  and  I  will  not  detain 
you  any  longer."  Doctor  Prescott  looked  at  him  with 
a  pale  and  forbidding  majesty  in  his  clear-cut  face. 
Jerome  arose,  and  was  passing  out  without  a  word,  as 
he  was  bidden,  when  the  old  man  held  out  his  hand. 
He  had  the  air  of  extending  a  sceptre,  and  a  haughty 
downward  look,  as  if  the  whole  world,  and  his  own 
self,  were  under  his  feet.  Jerome  shook  the  proif ered 
hand,  and  went.  His  hand  was  on  the  latch  of  the 
outer  door,  when  the  sitting-room  door  on  the  left 
opened,  and  he  felt  himself  enveloped,  as  it  were,  in 
a  softly  gracious  feminine  presence,  made  evident  by 
wide  rustlings  of  silken  skirts,  pointed  foldings  of 
lavender-scented  white  wool  over  out-stretched  arms, 


481 


and  heaving  waves  of  white  lace  over  a  high,  curving 
bosom.  Doctor  Prescott's  wife  drew  Jerome  to  her 
as  if  he  were  still  a  child,,  and  kissed  him  on  his  cheek. 
' '  Give  your  sister  my  fondest  love,  and  may  God  give 
you  your  own  reward,  dear  boy,"  she  said,  in  her 
beautiful  voice,  which  was  like  no  other  woman's  for 
sweetness  and  softness,  though  she  was  as  large  as  a 
queen. 

Then  she  was  gone,  and  Jerome  went  home,,  with 
the  scent  of  lavender  from  her  laces  and  silks  and 
white  wools  still  in  his  nostrils,  and  a  subtler  sweet 
ness  of  womanhood  and  fine  motherhood  dimly  per 
ceived  in  his  soul. 

When  he  got  home,  he  knew,  by  the  light  in  the 
parlor  windows,  that  Lawrence  was  with  his  sister. 
He  had  been  in  bed  some  time  before  he  heard  the 
front  door  shut. 

Elmira,  when  she  came  up-stairs,  opened  his  door 
a  crack,  and  whispered,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
happiness,  "Jerome,  you  asleep  ?" 

"No.;>; 

"Do — you  know — about  Lawrence  and  me  ?" 

"Yes  ;  Fm  real  glad,  Elmira." 

"  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for  speaking  to  you  the 
way  I  did,  Jerome." 

"That's  all  right,  Elmira." 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE  next  morning  Jerome  was  just  going  out  of 
the  yard  when  he  met  Paulina  Maria  Judd  and  Henry 
coming  in.  Paulina  Maria  held  her  blind  son  by  the 
hand,  but  he  walked  with  an  air  of  resisting  her 
guidance. 

"  J'rome,  Fve  come  to  see  you  about  that  money/' 
said  Paulina  Maria.  "I  hear  you're  goin'  to  give  us 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  I  told  you  once  we 
wouldn't  take  your  money." 

"This  is  different.  This  is  the  money  Colonel 
Lamson  left  me,  that  I'd  agreed  to  give  away." 

"It  ain't  any  different  to  us.     You  can  keep  it." 

"  I  sha'n't  keep  it,  anyway.  For  God's  sake,  aunt, 
take  it!  Henry,  take  it,  and  get  your  eyes  cured  !" 

"  I  sha'n't  take  money  that's  given  in  any  such  way, 
and  neither  will  my  son.  I  haven't  changed  my  mind 
about  what  I  said  the  other  night,  and  neither  has 
he.  You  need  this  money  yourself.  If  the  money 
had  been  left  to  us,  it  would  have  been  different ;  we 
sha'n't  take  it,  and  you  needn't  offer  it  to  us  ;  you 
can  count  us  out  in  your  division.  We  sha'n't  take 
what  Doctor  Prescott  has  offered  neither — to  give  us 
the  mortgage  on  our  house.  It's  an  honest  debt,  and 
we  don't  want  to  shirk  it.  If  we're  paupers,  we'll  be 
paupers  of  God,  but  of  no  man  !" 

"Henry,"  pleaded  Jerome,  "just  listen  to  me." 
But  it  was  of  no  avail.  His  cousin  turned  his  blind 


483 


face  sternly  away  from  his  pleading  voice,,  and  went 
out  of  the  yard,  still  seeming  to  strive  against  his 
mother's  leading  hand. 

Jerome  followed  them,  still  arguing  with  them;  he 
even  walked  with  them  a  little,  after  the  turn  of  the 
road.  Then  he  gave  it  up,  and  went  on  to  the  store, 
where  he  had  an  errand.  He  resolved  to  see  Adoni- 
ram,  and  try  to  influence  him  to  take  the  money  for 
his  blind  son.  He  could  not  believe  that  he  would 
not  do  so.  Long  before  he  reached  the  store  he  could 
hear  the  gabble  of  excited  voices,  and  loud  peals  of 
rough  laughter.  "  What's  going  on  ?"  he  thought. 
When  he  entered,  he  saw  Simon  Basset  backed  up 
against  a  counter,  at  bay,  as  it  were,  before  a  great 
throng  of  village  men  and  boys.  Basset  was  deathly 
white  through  his  grime  and  beard- stubble,  his  gaun-t 
jaws  snapping  like  a  wolf's,  his  eyes  fierce  with  terror. 

"  Shell  out,  Simon,"  shouted  a  young  man,  with  a 
butting  motion  of  a  shock  head  towards  the  old  man. 
"  Shell  out,  I  tell  ye,  or  ye'll  have  a  writ  served  on 
ye." 

"I  tell  ye  I  won't;  ye  don't  know  nothin"  about 
it;  I  ''ain't  got  no  property !"  shrieked  Simon  Basset, 
amidst  a  wild  burst  of  laughter. 

"  He  'ain't  got  no  property,  he  'ain't,  hi !"  shouted 
the  boys  on  the  outskirts,  with  peals  of  goblin  merri 
ment. 

<e  I  tell  ye  I  'ain't  got  more'n  five  thousand  dollars 
to  my  name  !" 

tf  You  'ain't,  eh  ?  Where's  all  your  land,  you  old 
liar  ?"  asked  the  young  man,  who  seemed  spokesman 
for  the  crowd. 

"  It  ain't  wuth  nothin'.  I  couldn't  sell  it  to-day  if 
I  wanted  to." 


484 


"Gimme  the  land,  then,  an'  we'll  take  the  risk," 
was  the  cry.  "  J'rome  and  the  doctor  have  shelled 
out ;  now  it's  your  turn,  or  you'll  hev  the  officers 
after  ye." 

Jerome  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd.  "  What 
are  you  scaring  him  for  ?"  he  demanded.  "  He's  an 
old  man,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves." 

"  He  ain't  more'n  seventy,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"an'  lie's  smart  as  a  cricket  —  he's  smart  enough  to 
gouge  the  whole  town,  old  's  he  is." 

"  That's  so,  Eph  !"  chorused  his  supporters. 

Jerome  grasped  Basset  by  the  shoulder.  "  Don't 
you  know  you  are  not  obliged  to  give  a  dollar,  if 
you  don't  want  to  ?"  he  asked.  "  That  paper  wasn't 
legal." 

The  old  man  shrank  before  him  with  craven  terror, 
and  yet  with  the  look  of  a  dog  which  will  snap  when 
he  sees  an  unwary  hand.  "  Ye  don't  git  me  into  none 
of  yer  traps," he  snarled.  "What  made  Doctor  Pres- 
cott  give  anythin'  ?" 

"  He  gave  because  he  wanted  to  keep  his  promise, 
not  because  he  was  forced  to  by  that  paper." 

"  Likely  story,"  said  Simon  Basset. 

"I  tell  you  it's  so." 

"  Likely  story,  Seth  Prescott  ever  give  it  if  he  wa'n't 
obliged  to.  Ye  can't  trap  me." 

"  Go  and  ask  him,  if  you  don't  believe  me,"  said  Je 
rome. 

"  Ye  don't  trap  me,  I'm  too  old." 

"  Go  and  ask  Lawyer  Means,  then." 

"  I  guess,  when  ye  git  me  into  that  pesky  lawyer's 
clutches,  ye'll  know  it!  Ye  can't  trap  me.  I  guess 
I  know  more  about  law  than  ye  do,  ye  damned  little 
upstart  ye  !  Why  couldn't  ye  have  kept  your  dead 


485 


man's  shoos  to  home,  darn  ye  ?  Ye'll  come  on  the 
town  yerself,  yet ;  ye  won't  have  money  enough  to 
pay  fer  your  burying  an'  I  hope  to  God  ye  won't  ! 
Curse  ye!  I'll  live  to  see  ye  in  your  pauper's  grave 
yet,  old  's  I  be.  Ye  thief!  I  tell  ye,  I  'ain't  got  no 
money.  I  'ain't  got  more'n  five  thousand  dollars, 
countin'  every  thin'  in  the  world,  an'  I'll  see  ye  all 
damned  to  hell  afore  I'll  give  ye  a  dollar.  Let  me 
out,  will  ye  ?"  Simon  Basset  made  a  clawing,  cat 
like  rush  through  the  crowd  to  the  door. 

"  I  tell  you,  Simon  Basset,  you  haven't  got  to  give 
a  dollar,"  shouted  Jerome  ;  but  he  might  as  well  have 
shouted  to  the  wind. 

"No  use,  J'rome,"  chuckled  the  shock-headed  young 
man,  "he's  gone  plumb  crazy  over  it.  You  can't  make 
him  listen  to  nothin'." 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean,  badgering  him  so  ?"  cried  Je 
rome,  angrily. 

"  He's  a  mean  old  cuss,  anyhow,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  defiant  laugh. 

"  That's  so  !  Serves  him  right,"  grunted  the  others. 
They  were  all  much  younger  than  Jerome,  and  many 
of  them  were  mere  boys.  It  seemed  strange  that  a  man 
as  sharp  as  Basset  had  taken  them  seriously. 

Jerome,  the  more  he  thought  it  over,  Avas  convinced 
that  Simon  Basset  was  half  crazed  with  the  fear  of 
parting  with  his  money.  When  he  came  out  of  the 
store,  he  hesitated  ;  he  was  half  inclined  to  follow 
Basset  home,  and  try  to  reason  him.  into  some  un 
derstanding  of  the  truth.  Then,  remembering  his 
violent  attitude  towards  himself,  he  decided  that  it 
would  be  useless,  and  went  home.  He  planned  to 
plough  his  garden  that  day. 

"  I've  got  to  work  at  something,"  Jerome  told  him- 


486 


self ;  "  if  it  isn't  one  thing,  it's  got  to  be  another."  He 
dwelt  always  upon  Lucina  :  what  she  was  thinking  of 
him  ;  if  she  thought  that  he  did  not  love  her,  because 
he  had  given  her  up  ;  if  she  would  look  at  him,  if  she 
were  to  see  him,  as  his  sister  had  done  the  night  be 
fore.  Jerome  had  not  yet  answered  Lucina's  letter. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  answer  it ;  but  he  carried  it 
with  him  night  and  day. 

He  went  home,  got  his  horse  and  plough,  and  fell 
to  work  in  his  hilly  garden  ground.  His  father  came 
out  and  sat  on  a  stone  and  watched  him  happily.  Je 
rome  was  scarcely  accustomed  to  his  father  yet,  but 
he  treated  him  as  tenderly  as  if  he  were  a  child,  and 
the  old  man  followed  him  like  one.  Indeed,  he  seemed 
to  prefer  his  son  to  his  wife,  though  Ann  watched 
him  with  jealous  affection.  Ann  Edwards  had  never 
walked  since  the  night  of  her  husband's  return.  She 
never  alluded  to  it ;  sometimes  her  children  thought 
that  she  had  not  known  it  herself. 

Jerome  was  still  ploughing  in  the  afternoon  when 
his  uncle  Ozias  Lamb  came. 

Ozias  stumped  softly  through  the  new -turned 
mould.  He  had  a  folded  paper  in  his  hand,  and  he 
extended  it  towards  Jerome.  "  D'ye  know  any  thin' 
about  this  ?"  he  asked.  His  face  was  ashy. 

Jerome  brought  his  horse  to  a  stand.  "  What  is 
it?" 

"  Don't  ye  know  ?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Well,  it's  that  mortgage  deed  that  Basset  held 
on  my  place,  with— the  signature  torn  off,  cancelled— 
Ozias  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice.     "  D'ye  know  anythin' 
about  it  now  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  replied  Jerome,  with  emphasis. 


487 


"Well,"  said  Ozias,  "I  found  it  under  the  front 
door-sill.  Belindy  said  she  heard  a  knock  on  the 
front  door,  but  when  she  went  there  waVt  nobody 
there,  an7  there  was  this  paper.  She  come'  runnin' 
out  to  the  shop  with  it.  It  was  jest  before  noon. 
What  d'ye  s'pose  it  means  ?" 

Jerome  took  the  deed  and  examined  it  closely. 
' '  Have  you  read  what's  written  above  the  heading  of 
it  ?"  he  asked. 

"No  ;  what  is  it,  J'rome  ?"  - 

Ozias  put  011  his  spectacles ;  Jerome  pointed  to  a 
crabbed  line  above  the  heading  of  the  mortgage  deed. 

"I  giv  as  present  the  forth' part  of  my  proputty,  this  mor- 
gidge  to  Ozier  Lamm. 

"  SIMON  BASSET." 

a  He's  took  crazy  !"  cried  Ozias,  staring  wildly  at  it. 

<e  Guess  he's  been  crazy  over  dollars  and  cents  all 
his  life,  and  this  is  just  an  acute  phase  of  it,"  replied 
Jerome,  calmly,  taking  up  his  plough  handles  again. 

"I  b'lieve  the  hull  town's  crazy.  I've  heard  that 
Doctor  Prescott  has  give  his  place  back  to  John  Up- 
ham,  an'  Peter  Thomas  is  comin'  out  of  the  poor- 
farm  an'  goin'  back  to  his  old  house.  J'rome,  I  de- 
clar'  to  reason,  I  b'lieve  you're  crazy,  an'  the  hull  town 
has  caught  it.  What's  that  ?  Who's  comin'  ?" 

A  wild-eyed  little  boy,  with  fair  hair  stiff  to  the 
breeze,  came  racing  across  the  plough  ridges.  ' '  Come 
quick  !  Come  quick  !"  he  gasped.  ' s  They've  sent 
me  —  Doctor  Prescott's  ain't  to  home — he's  most 
dead  !  Come  quick  !" 

"Where  to  ?"  shouted  Jerome,  pulling  the  tackle 
off  the  horse. 

"  Come  quick,  J'rome  !" 


488 


"  Where  to  9" 

"  Speak  up,  can't  ye  ?"  cried  Ozias,  shaking  the  boy 
by  his  small  shoulder. 

"  To  Basset's !"  screamed  the  boy,  shrilly,  jerked 
away  from  Ozias,  and  was  off,  clearing  the  ground 
like  a  hound,  with  long  leaps. 

"  Lord,"  said  Ozias,  looking  at  the  deed,  "  it's  killed 
him!" 

Jerome  had  freed  the  horse  from  the  plough,  and 
now  sprang  upon  his  back. 

"Ye  ain't  goin'  to  ride  him  bare-back  ?"  asked 
Ozias. 

"  Fm  not  going  to  stop,  for  a  saddle.  G'long  !" 
Jerome  bent  forward,  slapped  the  horse  on  the  neck, 
dug  his  heels  into  his  sides,  and  was  off  at  a 
gallop. 

Ozias  followed,  still  clutching  the  deed.  Abel  Ed 
wards  came  out  as  he  reached  the  house.  "Where's 
J'rome  goin'  to  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Down  to  Basset's  ;  somethin's  happened.  He's 
fell  dead  or  somethin'.  I'm  goin'  to  see  what  the 
matter  is. " 

"  Wait  till  I  git  my  hat,  an'  I'll  go  with  ye." 

The  two  old  men  went  at  a  fast  trot  down  the 
road,  and  many  joined  them,  all  hurrying  to  Simon 
Basset's. 

They  had  reached  Lawyer  Means's  house,  which 
stood  in  sight  of  Basset's,  before  they  met  a  returning 
company.  "It's  no  use  your  goin',"  shouted  a  man 
in  advance.  "He's  gone.  J'rome  Edwards  said  so 
the  minute  he  see  him,  an'  now  Doctor  Prescott  he's 
come,  an'  he  says  so.  He  was  dead  before  they  cut 
him  down." 

With  the  throng  of  excited  men  and  boys  came  one 


489 


pale-faced,  elderly  woman,  with  her  cap  awry  and  her 
apron  over  her  shoulders.  She  was  Miss  Eachel 
Blodgett,  Eliphalet  Means's  house-keeper. 

She  took  up  her  position  by  the  Means's  gate,  and 
the  crowd  gathered  ahout  her  as  a  nucleus.  Other 
women  came  running  out  of  neighboring  houses,  and 
pressed  close  to  her  skirts.  Cyrus  Robinson's  son 
pushed  before  her,  and,  when  she  began  to  speak  in  a 
strained  treble,  overpowered  it  with  a  coarse  volume 
of  bass.  ' '  Let  me  tell  what  I've  got  to  first,"  he  or 
dered,  importantly.  "My  part  comes  first,  then  it's 
your  turn.  Fve  got  to  go  back  to  the  store.  It  was 
just  about  noon  that  Simon  Basset  come  in  ag'in.  and 
asked  for  a  piece  of  rope.  Said  he  wanted  it  to  tie  his 
cow  with.  I  got  out  some  rope,  and  he  tried  to  beat 
me  down  on  it ;  asked  me  if  I  hadn't  got  some  sec 
ond-hand  rope  Fd  let  him  have  a  piece  of.  Finally 
I  got  mad,  and  asked  him  why,  if  he  wasn't  willing  to 
pay  for  rope  what  it  was  worth,  he  didn't  use  a  halter 
or  his  clothes-line. 

"  He  whined  out  that  his  halter  was  broke,  and  he 
hadn't  had  a  clothes-line  for  years.  That  last  I  be 
lieved,  quick  enough,  for  I  knew  he  didn't  ever  have 
any  washing  done. 

"Then  I  asked  him  why  he  didn't  steal  a  rope  if 
he  was  too  poor  to  pay  for  it,  and  he  said  he  was  too 
poor.  He  wasn't  worth  more  than  five  thousand  dollars 
in  the  world,  and  he'd  given  away  all  he  was  going  to 
of  that.  When  he  got  started  on  that,  he  ripped  and 
raved  the  way  he  did  this  morning  ;  hang  it,  if  I  didn't 
begin  to  think  he  was  out  of  his  mind.  Then  he  went 
off,  about  ten  minutes  past  twelve,  without  his  rope. 
I  suppose  there  were  pieces  of  rope  enough  around, 
but  I  got  mad,  he  acted  so  darned  mean  about  it,  and 


490 


wouldn't  hunt  it  up  for  him,  and  I'm  glad  now  I 
didn't/' 

Kachel  Blodgett,  who  had  been  teetering  with 
eagerness  on  her  thin  old  ankles,  interposing  now  and 
then  sharp  quavers  of  abortive  speech,  cut  short 
Robinson's  last  words  with  the  impetuosity  of  her 
delivered  torrent.  "I  washed  to-day/'  said  she.  "I 
didn't  wash  yesterday  because  it  wasn't  a  good  drying- 
day,  and  last  week  I  had  my  clothes  around  three 
days  in  the  tub,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wouldn't 
do  it  again.  So  I  washed  to-day. 

"  I  got  my  clothes  all  hung  out  before  dinner.  I 
had  an  uncommon  heavy  wash  to-day,  an  extra  table 
cloth — Mr.  Means  tipped  his  coffee  over  yesterday 
morning — and  the  sheets  of  the  spare  chamber  bed 
were  in,  so  I  put  up  a  little  piece  of  line  I  had,  be 
tween  those  two  trees,  beside  my  regular  clothes-line. 

"About  an  hour  ago  I  thought  to  myself  the 
clothes  ought  to  be  dry,  and  I'd  just  step  out  and 
look.  So  I  run  out,  and  there  were  the  clothes  I'd 
hung  on  the  little  line — some  dish-towels,  and  two  of 
my  aprons,  and  one  of  Mr.  Means's  shirts — down  on 
the  ground  in  the  dirt,  and  the  line  was  gone.  Thinks 
I,  '  Where's  that  line  gone  to  ?' 

"  I  stood  there  gaping,  I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail 
of  it.  Then  I  see  the  little  Grossman  boy  out  in  the 
yard,  and  I  hollered  to  him — '  Willy,'  says  I,  '  come 
here  a  minute.' 

"  He  come  running  over,  and  I  asked  him  if  he'd 
seen  anybody  in  our  yard  since  noon.  He  said  he 
hadn't  seen  anybody  but  Mr.  Basset.  He  saw  him 
coming  out  of  our  yard  tucking  something  under  his 
coat. 

"  That  put  ine  on  the  track.     If  I  do  say  it  of  the 


491 


dead,  and  one  that's  gone  to  his  account  in  an  awful 
way,  Mr.  Basset  had  been  over  here  time  and  time 
again,  and  helped  himself.  I  ain't  going  to  say  he 
stole;  he  helped  himself.  He  helped  himself  to  our 
kindling  wood,  and  our  hammer,  and  our  spade,  and 
our  rake.  After  the  spade  went,  I  made  a  notch  on 
the  rake-handle  so  I  could  tell  it,  and  when  that 
went,  I  slipped  over  to  Mr.  Basset's  one  day  when 
I  knew  he  wasn't  there,  and  there  was  our  rake 
in  his  shed.  I  said  nothing  to  nobody,  but  I  just 
brought  our  rake  home  again,  and  I  hid  it  where  he 
didn't  find  it  again.  Mr.  Means,  though  he's  a  law 
yer,  looks  out  sharper  for  other  folks'  belongings  than 
he  does  for  his  own.  He'd  never  say  anything;  he 
went  and  bought  another  spade  and  hammer,  and  he'd 
bought  another  rake  if  I  hadn't  got  that. 

' '  When  that  little  Grossman  boy  said  he'd  seen  Mr. 
Basset  coming  out  of  our  yard  tucking  something 
under  his  coat,  it  put  me  right  on  the  track,  though 
I  couldn't  think  what  he  wanted  with  that  little  piece 
of  rope.  I  should  have  thought  he  wanted  it  to 
mend  a  harness  with,  but  his  old  horse  died  last 
winter ;  folks  said  he  didn't  have  enough  to  eat,  but 
I  ain't  going  to  pass  any  judgment  on  that,  and  I 
knew  he  sold  his  old  harness,  because  the  man  he  sold 
it  to  had  been  to  Mr.  Means  to  get  damages  for  being- 
taken  in.  The  harness  had  broke,  and  his  horse  had 
run  away,  and  the  man  declared  that  that  harness  had 
been  glued  together  in  places. 

"  But  I  don't  know  anything  about  that.  The  poor 
man  is  dead,  and  if  he  glued  his  harness,  it's  for  him 
to  give  account  of,  not  me.  I  couldn't  think  what  he 
wanted  that  rope  for,  but  I  felt  mad.  The  rope  wasn't 
worth  much,  but  it  was  his  helping  himself  to  it, 


492 


without  leave  or  license,  that  riled  me,  and  there 
were  my  clean  clothes  all  down  in  the  dirt — there  they 
are  now,  you  can  see  'em  there — and  I  knew  Fd  got 
to  wash  'em  over. 

"So  I  made  up  my  mind  Fd  got  spunk  enough, 
and  I'd  go  right  over  there  and  tell  Simon  Basset  I 
wanted  my  rope.  So  I  took  off  my  apron  and  clapped 
it  over  my  shoulders — Fve  had  a  little  rheumatism 
lately,  and  the  wind's  kind  of  cold  to-day — and  I  run 
over  there. 

« I — don't  know  what  came  over  me.  When  I  got 
to  the  house,  a  chill  struck  all  through  my  bones.  I 
trembled  like  a  leaf.  I  felt  as  if  something  had  hap 
pened.  I  thought,  at  first,  I'd  turn  around  and  go 
home,  and  then  I  thought  I  wouldn't  be  so  silly,  that 
it  was  just  nerves,  and  nothing  had  happened.  I  went 
round  to  the  side  door,  and  I  didn't  see  him  putter 
ing  around  anywhere,  so  I  peeked  into  the  wood-shed. 
I  thought  if  I  saw  my  rope  there  Fd  just  take  it,  and 
run  home  and  say  nothing  to  nobody. 

"  But  I  didn't  see  it,  so  I  went  back  to  the  door 
and  knocked.  I  knocked  three  times,  and  nobody 
came.  Then  I  opened  the  door  a  crack,  and  hol 
lered — '  Mr.  Basset !'  says  I,  '  Mr.  Basset !' 

"I  called  a  number  of  times,  then  I  got  out  of 
patience.  I  thought  he'd  gone  away  somewhere, 
and  I  might  as  well  go  in  and  see  if  I  couldn't 
find  my  rope.  So  I  opened  the  door  wide  and 
stepped  in. 

"  It  was  awful  still  in  there — somehow  the  stillness 
seemed  to  hit  my  ears.  It  was  just  like  a  tomb. 
That  dreadful  horror  came  over  me  again.  I  felt 
the  cold  stealing  down  my  back.  I  made  up  my 
mind  I'd  just  peek  into  the  kitchen,  and  if  I  didn't 


493 


see  my  rope,  I  wouldn't  look  any  farther;  I'd  go 
home. 

"  So — the  kitchen  door  was  ajar,  and  I  pushed  it, 
and  it  swung  open,  and  —  I  looked,  and  there — 
there  !" 

Suddenly  the  woman's  shrill  monologue  was  inten 
sified  by  hysteria.  She  pointed  wildly,  as  if  she  saw 
again  the  awful  sight  which  she  had  seen  through 
that  open  door. 

"There,  there  !"  she  shrieked — "there  !  He  was 
— there — oh — Willy — the  doctor — Jerome  Edwards — 
Willy — oh,  there,  there  !"  She  caught  her  breath 
with  choking  sobs,  she  laughed,  and  the  laugh  ended 
in  a  wailing  scream ;  she  clutched  her  throat,  she 
struggled,  she  was  beside  herself  for  the  time,  run  off 
her  track  of  reason  by  her  panic-stricken  nerves. 

Two  pale,  chattering  women,  nearly  as  hysterical 
as  she,  led  her,  weeping  shrilly  all  the  way,  into  the 
house,  and  the  crowd  dispersed ;  some,  whose  curi 
osity  was  not  yet  satisfied,  to  seek  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy,  some  to  return  home  with  the  news.  Two 
men  of  the  latter,  walking  along  the  village  street, 
discussed  the  amount  of  the  property  left  by  the  dead 
man.  et  It's  as  much  as  fifty  thousand  dollars,"  said 
one. 

"  Every  dollar  of  it,"  assented  the  other. 

"It  ain't  likely  he's  made  a  will.  Who's  goin"  to 
heir  it  ?  He  'ain't  got  a  relation  that  I  know  of.  All 
the  folks  I  ever  heard  of  his  havin',  since  I  can  re 
member,  was  his  step-father  an'  his  brother  Sam,  an' 
they  died  twenty  odd  years  ago." 

"Adoniram  Judd's  father  was  Simon  Basset's 
mother's  cousin." 

"He  wa'n't." 


494 


"Yes,  he  was.  They  both  come  from  Westbrook, 
where  I  was  born." 

"Now  they  can  pay  off  the  mortgage,  and  get 
Henry's  eyes  fixed." 

"Adoniram  Judd  ain't  goin'  to  get  all  that  mon 
ey  !" 

"I  wouldn't  sell  ye  his  chance  on  't  for  forty  thou 
sand  dollars." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

DURING  Jerome's  absence  at  Simon  Basset's, 
Squire  Eben  Merritt's  wife  came  across  lots  to  the 
Edwardses'  house.  A  little  red  shawl  over  her  shoul 
ders  stood  out  triangularly  to  the  gusts  of  spring 
wind  ;  a  forked  end  of  red  ribbon  on  her  bonnet  flut 
tered  sharply.  Abigail  Merritt  moved  with  nervous 
impetus  across  the  fields,  like  an  erratic  thread  of 
separate  purpose  through  an  even  web.  All  the  red 
of  the  spring  landscape  was  in  the  swift  passing  of 
her  garments.  All  that  was  not  in  straight  parallels 
of  accord  with  the  universal  yielding  of  nature  to 
the  simplest  law  of  growth  was  in  her  soul.  She 
passed  on  her  own  errand,  cutting,  as  it  were,  a  swath 
of  spirit  through  the  soft  influence  of  the  spring. 
Abigail  Merritt's  mouth  was  tightly  shut,  her  eyes 
were  narrow  gleams  of  resolution,  there  were  red 
spots  on  her  cheeks.  She  had  left  Lucina  weeping 
on  the  bed  in  her  little  chamber;  she  had  said  noth 
ing  to  her,  nor  her  husband,  but  she  had  resolved 
upon  her  own  course  of  action. 

' '  It  is  time  something  was  done,"  said  Abigail 
Merritt,  nodding  to  herself  in  the  glass  as  she  tied 
on  her  bonnet,  "and  I  am  going  to  do  it." 

When  she  reached  the  Edwardses'  house,  she  step 
ped  briskly  up  the  path,  bowing  to  Mrs.  Edwards  in 
the  window,  and  Elmira  opened  the  door  before  she 
knocked. 


496 


"  Good-afternoon ;  I  would  like  to  see  your  brother 
a  moment/'  Abigail  announced,  abruptly. 

"He  isn't  at  home/'  said  Elmira;  "something  has 
happened  at  Simon  Basset's — I  don't  know  what.  A 
boy  came  after  Jerome,  and  he  hurried  off.  Fathers 
gone  too."  Elmira  blushed  all  over  her  face  and 
neck  as  she  spoke.  "Jerome  will  be  sorry  he  wasn't 
at  home,"  she  added.  She  had  a  curious  sense  of  in 
nocent  confusion  over  the  situation. 

Mrs.  Edwards  blushed  too,  like  an  echo,  though 
she  gave  her  little  dark  head  an  impatient  toss. 

"Then  please  ask  your  brother  if  he  will  be  so 
kind  as  to  come  to  the  Squire's  after  supper  to 
night,"  she  returned,  in  her  smart,  prettily  dictatori 
al  way,  and  took  leave  at  once,  though  Elmira  urged 
her  politely  to  come  in  and  rest  and  wait  for  her 
brother's  return. 

She  gave  the  message  to  Jerome  when  he  came 
home.  "What  do  you  suppose  she  wants  of  you  ?" 
she  asked,  wonderingly.  Jerome  shook  his  head. 

"  Why,  you  look  as  white  as  a  sheet !"  said  Elmira, 
staring  at  him. 

"I've  seen  enough  this  afternoon  to  make  any 
man  look  white,"  Jerome  replied,  evasively. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  have ;  it  is  awful  about  Simon 
Basset,"  Elmira  assented,  shudderingly. 

Jerome  had  to  force  himself  to  his  work  after  he 
had  received  Mrs.  Merritt's  message.  The  tragedy  of 
Simon  Basset  had  given  him  a  terrible  shock,  and 
now  this  last  set  his  nerves  in  a  tumult  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"What  can  she  want?"  he  questioned,  over  and 
over.  "Shall  I  see  Lucina  ?  What  can  her  mother 
have  to  say  to  me  ?" 


497 


One  minute,,  thinking  of  Simon  Basset,  he  stood 
convicted,  to  his  shame,  of  the  utter  despicableness  of 
all  his  desires  pertaining  to  the  earth  and  the  flesh, 
by  that  clear  apprehension  of  eternity  which  often 
comes  to  one  at  the  sight  of  sudden  death.  He  set 
tled  with  himself  that  wealth  and  success  and  learn 
ing,  and  love  itself  even,  were  as  nothing  beside  that 
one  surety  of  eternity,  which  holds  the  sequence  of 
good  and  evil,  and  is  of  the  spirit. 

Then,  in  a  wild  rebellion  of  honesty,  he  would  own 
to  himself  that,  whether  he  would  have  it  so  or  not, 
to  his  understanding,  still  hampered  by  the  conditions 
of  the  flesh,  perhaps  made  morbid  by  resistance  to 
them,  but  that  he  could  not  tell,  love  wa^  the  one 
truth  and  reality  and  source  of  all  things ;  that  life 
was  because  of  love,  not  love  because  of  life. 

Jerome  set  his  mouth  hard  as  he  ploughed.  The 
newly  turned  sods  clung  to  his  feet  and  made  them 
heavy,  as  the  fond  longings  of  the  earth  clung  to  his 
soul.  It  seemed  to  Jerome  that  he  had  never  loved 
Lucina  as  he  loved  her  then,  that  he  had  never  want 
ed  her  so  much.  Also  that  he  had  never  been  so 
firmly  resolved  to  give  her  up.  If  Lucina  had 
seemed  beyond  his  reach  before,  she  seemed  doubly 
so  then,  and  her  new  wealth  loomed  between  them 
like  an  awful  golden  flood  of  separation.  "  I  have 
given  away  all  my  money, "  he  said.  "  Shall  I  marry 
a  wife  with  money,  to  make  good  my  loss  ?"  He 
laughed  at  himself  with  bitter  scorn  for  the  fancy. 

After  supper,  he  dressed  himself  in  his  best  clothes, 
and  set  out  for  Squire  Merriti/s,  evading  as  much  as 
he  could  his  mother's  questions  and  surmises.  Ann's 
bitterness  at  his  disposal  of  his  money  was  softened 
to  loquacity  by  her  curiosity. 


498 


"I  s'pose,"  said  she,  "that  if  that  poor  girl  goes 
down  on  her  knees  to  you,  an"  tells  you  her  heart  is 
breaking  that  you'll  jest  hand  her  over  to  the  town 
poor,  the  way  you  did  your  money." 

"Don't,  mother,"  whispered  Elmira,  as  Jerome 
went  out,  making  no  response. 

"I'm  goin'  to  say  what  I  think  's  best.  I'm  his 
mother,"  returned  Ann.  But  when  Jerome  was  gone, 
she  broke  down  and  cried,  and  complained  that  the 
poor  boy  hadn't  eat  any  supper,  and  she  was  afraid 
he'd  be  sick.  Abel,  sitting  near  her,  snivelled  softly 
for  sympathy,  not  fairly  comprehending  her  cause  for 
tears.  When  she  stopped  weeping,  and  took  up  her 
knitting-work  again,  he  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  and  fell 
to  eating  an  apple. 

As  for  Elmira,  she  tried  to  comfort  her  mother,  and 
she  had  an  anxious  curiosity  about  Jerome  and  his 
call  at  the  Merritts' ;  but  Lawrence  Prescott  was  corn 
ing  that  evening. 

Presently  Ann  heard  her  singing  rip-stairs  in  her 
chamber,  whither  she  had  gone  to  curl  her  hair  and 
change  her  gown. 

"I'm  glad  somebody  can  sing,"  muttered  Ann  ; 
but  in  the  depths  of  her  heart  was  a  wish  that  her 
son,  instead  of  her  daughter,  could  have  had  the 
reason  for  song,  if  it  were  appointed  to  one  only. 
"Women  don't  take  things  so  hard  as  men,"  rea 
soned  Ann  Edwards. 

AVhen  Jerome  knocked  at  Squire  Merritt's  door 
that  evening,  Mrs.  Merritt  opened  it.  For  a  minute 
everything  was  dark  before  him ;  he  had  thought  that 
he  might  see  Lucina.  His  voice  sounded  strange  in 
his  own  ears  when  he  replied  to  Mrs.  Merritt's  greet 
ing  ;  he  almost  reeled  when  he  followed  her  into  the 


499 


parlor.  It  was  a  cool,  spring  night,  and  there  was  a 
fire  on  the  hearth.  A  silver  branch  of  candles  on 
the  mantel-shelf  lit  the  room. 

Mrs.  Merritt  looked  anxiously  at  Jerome  as  she 
placed  a  chair.  "  I  hope  yon  are  well,"  she  said,  in 
her  quick  way,  but  her  voice  was  kind.  Jerome 
thought  it  sonnded  like  Lucina's.  He  stammered 
that  he  was  qnite  well. 

"You  look  pale." 

When  he  made  no  response  to  that,  she  added,  with 
a  motherly  cadence,  that  he  had  been  through  a  great 
deal  lately  ;  that  she  had  felt  very  sorry  about  the  loss 
of  his  mill. 

Jerome  thanked  her.  He  sat  opposite,  in  a  great 
mahogany  arm-chair,  holding  himself  very  erect ;  but 
his  pulses  sang  in  his  ears,  and  his  downcast  eyes 
scanned  the  roses  in  the  carpet.  He  did  not  under 
stand  i't,  but  he  was  for  the  moment  like  a  school 
boy  before  the  aroused  might  of  feminity  of  this  lit 
tle  woman. 

"It  is  partly  about  your  mill  that  I  want  to  see 
you,"  said  Abigail  Merritt.  "  The  Squire  has  some 
thing  which  he  wishes  to  propose,  but  he  has  begged 
me  to  do  so  for  him.  He  thinks  my  chances  of  suc 
cess  are  better.  I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  fin 
ished,  smiling. 

Jerome  looked  up  then,  with  quick  attention, 
and  she  came  at  once  to  the  point.  Abigail  Mer 
ritt,  her  mind  once  made  up,  was  not  a  woman 
to  beat  long  about  a  bush.  "The  Squire  has,  as 
you  know,"  she  said,  "a  legacy  of  five  thousand 
dollars  from  poor  Colonel  Lamson.  He  wishes  to 
invest  part  of  it.  He  would  like  to  rebuild  your 
mill." 


Jerome  colored  high.  "  Thank  him>  and  thank 
you,"  he  said;  "  but— 

"  He  does  not  propose  to  give  it  to  you/'  she  in 
terposed,  quickly.  "He  would  not  venture  to  pro 
pose  that,  however  much  he  might  like  to  do  so.  His 
plan  is  to  rebuild  the  mill,  and  for  you  to  work  it  on 
shares — you  to  have  your  share  of  the  profits  for  your 
labor.  You  could  have  the  chance  to  buy  him  out 
later,  when  you  were  able." 

Jerome  was  about  to  speak,  but  Abigail  interrupt 
ed  again.  "  I  beg  you  not  to  make  your  final  decision 
now,"  she  said.  "  There  is  no  necessity  for  it.  I 
would  rather,  too,  that  you  gave  your  answer  to  the 
Squire  instead  of  me.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
It  is  simply  a  proposition  of  the  Squire's  for  you  to 
consider  at  your  leisure.  You  know  how  much  my 
husband  has  always  thought  of  you  since  you  were  a 
child.  He  would  be  glad  to  help  you,  and  help  him 
self  at  the  same  time,  if  you  will  allow  him  to  do  so  ; 
but  that  can  pass  over.  I  have  something  else  of 
more  importance  to  me  to  say.  Jerome  Edwards," 
said  she,  suddenly,  and  there  was  a  new  tone  in  her 
voice,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  just  how  matters 
stand  between  you  and  my  daughter,  Lucina.  I  am 
her  mother,  and  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

Jerome  looked  at  her.  His  handsome  young  face 
was  very  white.  "I — have  been  working  hard  to 
earn  enough  money  to  marry,"  he  said,  speaking 
quick,  as  if  his  breath  failed  him.  "I  lost  my  mill. 
I  will  not  ask  her  to  wait." 

"You  had  a  fortune,  but  you  gave  it  away,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Merritt.  "Well,  we  will  not  discuss 
that ;  that  is  not  between  you  and  me,  or  any 
human  being,  if  you  did  what  you  thought  right. 


501 


Lucina  has  twenty  thousand  dollars,  you  know 
that  ?" 

Jerome  nodded.     "Yes,"  he  replied,,  hoarsely. 

"What  difference  will  it  make  whether  you  have 
the  money  or  your  wife  ?" 

"  It  makes  a  difference  to  me,"  Jerome  cried  then, 
with  that  old  flash  of  black  eyes  which  had  intimi 
dated  the  little  girl  Lucina  in  years  past. 

"And  yet  you  say  you  love  my  daughter,,"  said 
Mrs.  Merritt,  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"I  love  her  so  much  that  I  would  lay  down  my 
life  for  her  !"  Jerome  cried,  fiercely,  and  there  was  a 
flare  of  red  over  his  pale  face. 

"But  not  so  much  that  you  would  sacrifice  one  jot 
or  one  tittle  of  your  pride  for  her,"  responded  Abi 
gail  Merritt,  with  sharp  scorn.  Suddenly  she  sprang 
up  from  her  chair  and  stood  before  the  young  man, 
every  nerve  in  her  slight  body  quivering  with  the  fire 
of  eloquence.  "Now  listen,  Jerome  Edwards,"  said 
she.  "I  know  who  and  what  you  are,  and  I  know 
who  and  what  my  daughter  is.  I  give  you  your  full 
due.  You  have  traits  which  are  above  the  common, 
and  out  of  the  common ;  some  which  are  noble,  and 
some  which  render  you  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  any 
one  who  loves  you.  I  give  you  your  full  due.,  and  I 
give  my  daughter  hers.  I  can  say  it  without  vanity 
— it  is  the  simple  truth — Lucina  has  had  her  pick 
and  choice  among  many.  She  could  have  wedded, 
had  she  chosen,  in  high  stations.  She  has  a  face  and 
character  which  win  love  for  her  wherever  she  goes. 
I  am  not  here  to  offer  or  force  my  daughter  upon  any 
unwilling  lover.  If  I  had  not  been  sure,  from  what 
she  has  told  me,  and  from  what  I  have  observed, 
that  you  were  perfectly  honest  in  your  affection 


502 


for  her,  I  should  not  have  sent  for  you  to-night. 
I—" 

She  stopped,  for  Jerome  burst  out  with  a  passion 
which  startled  her.  "Honest!  Oh,  my  God!  I 
love  her  so  that  I  am  nothing  without  her.  I  love 
her  more  than  the  whole  world,  more  than  my  own 
life  !" 

"  Then  give  up  your  pride  for  her,  if  you  love  her," 
said  Abigail,  sharply. 

"My  pride  \" 

"Yes,  your  pride.  You  have  given  away  every 
thing  else,  but  how  dare  you  think  yourself  generous 
when  you  have  kept  the  thing  that  is  dearest  of  all  ? 
You  generous — you  !  Talk  of  Simon  Basset !  You 
are  a  miser  of  a  false  trait  in  your  own  character. 
You  are  a  worse  miser  than  he,  unless  you  give  it  up. 
What  are  you,  that  you  should  say,  '  I  will  go  through 
life,  and  I  will  give,  and  not  take  ?'  What  are  you, 
that  you  should  think  yourself  better  than  all  around 
you — that  you  should  be  towards  your  fellow-creatures 
as  a  god,  conferring  everything,  receiving  nothing  ? 
If  you  love  my  daughter,  prove  it.  Take  what  she 
has  to  give  you,  and  give  her,  what  is  worth  more  than 
money,  if  you  had  the  riches  of  Croesus,  the  pride 
of  your  heart." 

Jerome  stood  before  her,  looking  at  her.  Then, 
without  a  word,  he  went  across  the  room  to  a  win 
dow,  and  stood  there,  his  back  towards  her,  his  face 
towards  the  moonlight  night,  outside. 

"  Is  it  pride  or  principle  ?"  he  said,  hoarsely,  with 
out  turning  his  head. 

"Pride." 

Jerome  stood  silently  at  the  window.  Abigail 
watched  him,  her  brows  contracted,  her  fingers  twitch- 


503 


ing ;  there  were  red  spots  on  her  cheeks.  This  had 
cost  her  dearly.  She,  too,  had  given  up  her  pride 
for  love  of  Lucina. 

Jerome,  with  a  sudden  motion  of  his  shoulders,  as 
if  he  flung  off  a  burden,  left  the  window  and  crossed 
the  room.  He  was  very  pale,  but  his  eyes  were  shin 
ing.  He  towered  over  Mrs.  Merritt  with  his  splen 
did  height,  and  she  was  woman  enough,  even  then,  to 
note  how  handsome  he  was.  "Will  you  give  me 
Lucina  for  my  wife  ?"  said  he. 

Tears  sprang  to  Abigail's  eyes,  her  little  face  quiv 
ered.  She  took  Jerome's  hand,  pressed  it,  murmured 
something,  and  went  out.  Jerome  understood  that 
she  had  gone  to  call  Lucina. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  heard  Lucina's  step  on 
the  stairs,  and  the  rustle  of  her  skirts.  Then  there 
was  a  suspensive  silence,  as  if  she  hesitated  at  the 
door ;  then  the  latch  was  lifted  and  she  came  in. 

Lucina,  in  a  straight  hanging  gown  of  blue  silk, 
stood  still  near  the  door,  looking  at  Jerome  with  a 
wonderful  expression  of  love  and  modest  shrinking 
and  trust  and  fear,  and  a  gentle  dignity  and  gra- 
ciousness  withal,  which  only  a  maiden's  face  can 
compass.  Lucina  did  not  blush  nor  tremble,  though 
her  steady  poise  seemed  rather  due  to  the  repression 
of  tremors  than  actual  calm  of  spirit.  Though'  no 
color  came  into  Lucina's  smooth,  pale  curves  of 
cheek,  and  though  her  little  hands  were  clasped  be 
fore  her,  like  hands  of  marble,  her  blue  eyes  were 
dilated,  and  pulses  beat  hard  in  her  delicate  throat 
and  temples. 

Jerome,  on  his  part,  was  for  a  minute  unable  to 
speak  or  approach  her.     An  awe  of  her,  as  of  an! 
angel,  was  over  him,  now  that  for  the  first  time  the  , 


504 


certainty  of  possession  was  in  his  heart.  It  often 
happens  that  one  receiving  for  the  first  time  a  great 
and  long-desired  blessing,  can  feel,  for  the  moment, 
not  joy  and  triumph  so  much  as  awe  and  fear  at  its 
sudden  glory  of  fairness  in  contact  with  his  un worthi 
ness. 

But,  all  at  on*ce,  as  Jerome  hesitated  a  soft  red 
came  flaming  over  Lucina's  face  and  neck,  and  tears 
of  distress  welled  up  in  her  eyes.  Far  it  was  from 
her  to  understand  how  her  lover  felt,  for  awe  of  her 
self  was  beyond  her  imagination,  and  a  dreadful  fear 
lest  her  mother  had  been  mistaken  and  Jerome  did 
not  want  her  after  all,  was  in  her  heart.  She  gave 
him  a  little  look,  at  once  proud  and  piteously  shamed, 
and  put  her  hand  on  the  door-latch  ;  but  with  that 
Jerome  was  at  her  side  and  his  arms  were  around 
her. 

"Oh,  Lucina,"  he  said,  "I  am  poor — I  am  poorer 
than  when  I  spoke  to  you  before.  You  must  give  all 
and  I  nothing,  except  myself,  which  seems  to  me  as 
nothing  when  I  look  at  you.  Will  you  take  me  so  ?" 

Then  Lucina  looked  straight  up  in  his  face,  and  her 
blushes  were  gone,  and  her  blue  eyes  were  dark,  as 
if  from  unknown  depths  of  love  and  faithfulness. 
"Don't  you  know,"  she  said,  with  an  authoritative 
seriousness,  which  seemed  beyond  her  years  and  her 
girlish  experience  —  "don't  you  know  that  when  I 
give  you  all  I  give  to  myself,  and  that  if  I  did  not 
give  you  all  I  could  never  give  to  myself,  but  should 
be  poor  all  my  life  ? 

"And,  and — "  continued  Lucina,  tremulously,  for 
she  was  beginning  to'  falter,  being  nerved  to  such 
length  of  assertive  speech  only  by  her  wish  to  com 
fort  and  reassure  Jerome,  "don't  yon  know — don't 


505 


you  know,  Jerome,  that — a  woman's  giving  is  all  her 
taking,  and — you  wouldn't  take  the  gingerbread,  dear, 
and  the  money  for  the  shoes,  when  we  were  both  chil 
dren — but,  maybe  your — taking  from — somebody  who 
loves  you  is  your — best  giving — " 

With  that  Lucina  was  sobbing  softly  011  Jerome's 
shoulder,  and  he  was  leaning  his  face  close  to  hers, 
whispering  brokenly  and  kissing  her  hair  and  her 
cheek. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,  after  all,  because  you  lost  your 
mill,  dear,"  Lucina  said,  presently,  "  because  we  have 
money  enough  for  everything,  now." 

"It  is  your  money,  for  your  own  needs  always," 
Jerome  returned,  quickly,  and  with  a  sudden  recoil  as 
from  a  touch  upon  a  raw  surface,  for  the  sensitiveness 
of  a  whole  life  cannot  be  hardened  in  a  moment. 

"No,  it  is  yours,  too  ;  he  meant  it  so,"  said  Lu 
cina,  with  a  little  laugh.  "You  wait  a  minute  and 
I  will  show  you." 

With  that  Lucina  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  her 
silken  gown  and  produced  a  letter. 

"Read  this,  dear,"  said  she,  "and  you  will  see 
what  I  mean." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Jerome,  wonderingly,  staring 
at  the  superscription,,  which  was,  "  For  Mistress  Lu 
cina  Merritt,  to  be  opened  and  read  by  herself,  at 
her  pleasure  and  discretion,  and  to  be  read  by  herself 
and  Jerome  Edwards  jointly  on  the  day  of  their  be 
trothal." 

"Come  over  to  the  light  and  we  will  read  it  to 
gether,"  said  Lucina. 

Jerome  and  Lucina  sat  down  on  the  sofa  under  the 
branching  candlestick  and  read  the  letter  with  their 
heads  close  together.  The  letter  ran  : 


506 


"DEAII  MISTRESS  LTJCINA, —  When  this  you  read  an  old 
soldier  will  have  fought  his  last, battle,  and  his  heart,  which 
has  held  you  as  kindly  as  a  father's,  will  have  ceased  to  beat. 
But  he  prays  that  you  will  ever,  in  your  own  true  and  loving 
heart,  save  a  place  for  his  memory,  and  he  begs  you  to  accept 
as  an  earnest  of  his  affection,  with  his  fond  wishes  for  your 
happiness,  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  dollars,  as  specified  in 
his  last  will  and  testament. 

"And  he  furthermore  begs  that  the  said  sum  of  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars  be  regarded  by  you,  when  }rou  wed  Jerome  Ed 
wards,  in  the  light  of  a  dowry,  to  be  employed  by  you  both,  for 
your  mutual  good  and  profit,  during  your  married  life.  And 
this  with  my  commendation  for  the  wisdom  of  your  choice,  and 
my  ferveut  blessing  upon  my  foster  son  and  daughter. 

"  I  am,  dear  Mistress  Lucina,  your  obedient  servant  to  com 
mand,  your  devoted  friend,  and  your  affectionate  foster  father, 

"JonN  LAMSON." 


THE    END 


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